The Reckoning: Chapter Twenty-Four . . . The Wastelands







Somewhere in

Space and Time


      My entire life, I had pretty much considered myself to be something of a slow learner. Most of my lessons came hard and painfully, and not just a few of them had to be repeated—often, more than just once. I guess that learning to drive a stick-shift was about as close as I ever got to getting it just right the absolute first time I tried something. It had seemed natural to me—a sort of “aha” moment. After a few clutches and shifts, I just sort of intuitively understood that this was how real automobiles and gearboxes were supposed to work.

Time-travel was like that for me too—only even more so. This thing I had down pat. I’d like to say that I willed myself to go different places and times, but that would be grossly misleading. No clicking the heels of my shoes either. It was far, far easier than that. It was slicker than that. I merely formed an idea of where I wanted to be, and—zap, I was there. Matt had told me in the past that everyone had the gift, but it mostly remained dormant in people, except perhaps in their night-time dreamscapes. He said that the only real difference between the McCabes and everyone else was that they were simply better at it. This day I was beginning to think that I might be even better at it than the McCabes. The watch had only been a focusing device. The time-travel machine was first, last and always the human brain, and right at the moment my brain was firing on all cylinders. Now that I was displaced, I no longer needed the watch in the slightest.

Guess there is something to be said for being half-dead, or half-alive, or whatever the hell this displaced thing was.

I didn’t really know where, or when, for that matter, that Capone and I had ended up. All I knew was that I had a mental image of the landscape where I wanted to be, and then, zap—I was there. With old Al firmly in tow. Matt once said that he was afraid to go too far back in time. He said it got dicey real fast. That the sky grew dark, and the ground felt like it was about to shift under his feet. Disconcerting. And disquieting. I didn’t know for sure, but I had a damned good feeling that we were very far away, both in space and time. The sky overhead was darkening to a syrupy thick blood red. And the earth not only shifted under our feet, but although flat, seemed to slide away from us at crazy undulating angles. There were impossibly distant mountains on the horizon, dark and flat—devoid of vegetation or life of any kind.

The ground under our feet was also dry, parched, and widely cracked. It went off in all directions, and went on for as far as our eyes could see. It was dotted with armchair sized boulders and smaller rocks. Not a living thing, plant or animal, in sight—although the sudden appearance of pterodactyls in the sky would not have surprised me. It looked to be a desert landscape from a Lovecraft nightmare, although there was no heat. Dark clouds in the sky shrouded any possible sun. The air was cool on our skin, and carried the pungent scent of dry-rot.

Nope—I didn’t much think we were in Kansas anymore. And there were no roads to be seen anywhere either—yellow brick or otherwise.

Capone and I landed on our feet, but old Al stumbled, and when he did, his hand was wrenched from my handshake death-grip and he fell on his ample butt—hard. Dust from the hard-pan surface was kicked up and swirled in the faint breeze. Capone’s head swiveled around furiously and his eyes grew large, trying to take everything in all at once, but his brain was unable to process it. He did what any dimwitted gangsta would do under the circumstances, I guess.

He went for his gun.

I had to give him credit. Even for a dumb-ass wise-guy, Al was a man of much action, and very little to zero thought. He pointed his .45 directly at my chest and pulled the trigger. I don’t know just how the hell he thought he was going to get back to where he was with me dead, but like I said, he was no rocket-scientist. Seeing it coming as I did a split second before he fired, it was a simple matter to side-step the bullet—all eight times that he pulled the trigger. Finally, his pistol empty, he simply threw it at me.

I easily batted it away.

Next, he was on his feet and swinging wildly for my head. I was amazed at the short and chubby man’s energy. Far from the public perception of Capone at this stage of his life, he was not even slightly weakened and wizened by disease, but in the apparent full-bloom of health. He still packed a damned good punch. Trouble was, for him anyhow, he connected with nothing but air. The last time he went by me, matador and bull-fight style, I gave him a hard slap across his face. He fell down again, and I shouted loudly for him to remain there.

“Give it up, Capone. You can’t hurt me.”

“Who the hell are you?” he snarled.

“Your worst nightmare, fat boy—and your very last chance on earth.”

“Last chance for what?” he snarled again.

“To avoid an eternity burning in Hell—that’s what,” I replied. I had settled on my role, and I intended to play it to absolute perfection. My comment had gotten his full and undivided attention. As a good Italian Catholic, I knew that he had been raised steeped deeply in that faith. Heaven and Hell were far more than simple concepts and constructs to him. They were very real, and Hell was something that he probably had long felt he stood in danger of. Men like Capone though, always seem to believe they are going to live forever.

Old Al had just received his wake-up call.

“Are you the grim-reaper?” he asked.

I nodded.

“Am I dead?”

“Not quite,” I deadpanned. “But then, the day isn’t over yet.”

“How’d I buy it? Shot?”

“Not that fancy. Heart-attack. You might survive it. The jury is still out.”

“I don’t like juries.”

“I don’t doubt it,” I replied.

“What do you want from me?” he wailed.

“Truth, Capone—and confession. Tell me about your kills.”

“What?” he wailed again. “I ain’t killed nobody.”

“You mean lately.”

“I mean ever.”

I gave him the meanest glare I had in me. “This isn’t a real good time for lying, fat-boy.” Almost as an exclamation point, one of the cracks in the hard packed mud opened up a few feet away from Capone and it hissed out a short steam-fart. The small geyser that sprang up a couple of feet above the ground got Al’s attention real fast too. His eyes grew even larger than they had been. He could see what I was seeing too. We had only been there for a minute or two so far, but already the entire landscape had an even more unreal and surreal appearance and seemed to be even less stable. I could tell we needed to get out fast, but damn—it was the perfect spot to grill Capone, and I didn’t want to give it up. I only hoped the “grilling” didn’t become real. For both of us.

“What about Bugs?” I asked. I figured the St. Valentine’s Day Massacre might just provide a good starting point in an examination of Capone’s long and sordid life of sin and crime. Not to mention a few real good “warm-up” questions for the chubby and scar-faced gangsta.

“What about him?” Capone squealed. “He was a freakin’ pig. Always movin’ in on me. I didn’t whack him, but I’ll be damned if Moran didn’t have it coming. I didn’t shed a tear when it happened.”

“How about the six men machine-gunned to death with him?”

Capone sneered. “Piglets. Six little piglets suckin’ up to their big-tits momma Moran. They got what the hell they deserved.”

“You ordered it, Capone. You and your Purples.”

“So what? So what the freakin’ hell if I did. You think I had an easy life? My father was a damned barber, and momma was a seamstress. In a brand-new freakin’ world. We were nearly penniless. How’s a family gonna live like that? You wanna send me to hell, Mr. Reaper, for feeding the family? Yeah, you just go right ahead and do that. What the hell do I care? Go ahead. All my friends are there—or will be soon enough.”

It was plain that old Al was getting mad and finally growing a set. Capone had been released from prison because he was supposed to be dying with end-stage syphilis, and a body riddled with cocaine and alcohol destruction. According to the “experts” of his time, his brain was nearly eaten away, and he had the mentality of a twelve-year old. I could tell at a glance that the professionals of Capone’s day weren’t a damned bit better at what they did than their modern-day counterparts.

Capone was about as feeble as the Incredible Hulk, and I was making him damned angry.

“It was a stupid move,” I observed. “You were a hero to a lot of people before Moran. A guy that took bows at ball-games, and blessed babies in Church. Everyone knew your name. You were a giant. Some said you were a Robin Hood. A champion of the little-guy and the downtrodden. Donated to charity and all that jazz. After you snuffed Bugsy, you became just another dime-a-dozen cheap hood. Public Enemy number one. All over a petty little turf war.”

Capone had sat down on a rock, apparently resigned to the more than deserved fate he was sure was coming. He rested his chin on his fist, his elbow resting on his knee. A faint smile played on his scarred face. “It wasn’t all that petty, Grim. He was sucking a hell of a lot of money out of my bootlegging operation. Constantly movin’ in on me. Always testing me. The money loss I could stand. The disrespect—well, that was another thing. He was lucky he went the way he did. The old Thompson was a quick death. I shoulda cut his nuts off first.”

“Yeah, you were a real sweet guy, Al. The regular salt of the earth. A simple businessman—just giving the public what it wanted. How many men did you kill, Capone. Between you and your Purples—just how many was it? No sense lying, Al—it’s way too late for that now.”

Capone thought it over. I could almost hear the calculator working in his brain.

“Oh, I don’t know,” he softly said. “Maybe a hundred. Maybe more than that. I wasn’t in a business where it paid to keep too very detailed records.”

“No, I guess you weren’t,” I allowed. I decided to go for the gold. “How many children did you kill?”

Capone had been staring down at his feet, but with that question he looked up slowly, his eyes meeting mine fully for the first time. It would have been hard to have missed the hatred there.


“Little Bea Alderman, that’s who.”

“How the hell did you know about that?”

“I’m the grim reaper,” I replied. “I know everything.”

“Then why ask me?”

“Because you have to say it, you lousy piece of dog-shit. When it yours—you have to own it. It’s the only chance you’ve got. A slim one . . . but it’s the one and only.” And here we were. Right at the edge of it. He didn’t yell at me. He didn’t rise up in righteous indignation. He made no denials or excuses. He simply sat there in silence. I could tell the silence wouldn’t last for long. My hunch had been correct. I always knew with men like this. I always knew. It was the only thing that separated me from the rest of the pack.

It was my edge.

“Why were you in Detroit tonight?” I asked.

“Passing through. Wanted to say goodbye to my brother and a few friends. I was going down to Florida for a while. I wanted to die someplace warm.”

“You’ve almost made it,” I said. The cracked soil steam-farted again.

“Yeah, Grim—almost there. Nice and warm—getting close.”

“How ‘bout the Kid? Were you going to talk to him on your way to your warm Atlantic sunsets?”

“No, grim—I wasn’t going to talk to the Kid.”

“Talk to me, Capone. Just like your immortal soul depended on it.”

He sighed, resigned to his fate. “Tell me what you want to know,” he said.

“Why? That’s what I want to know, Capone. Why the hell did it happen?”

“Just what you said, Grim. Business. Just Business. Business gone bad. Real, real bad.”

“You set-up the kidnapping?”



“The Kid. We wanted him to throw a fight. Well, not him, but the boy he managed—Patrick Murray. We knew the Kid wouldn’t do it. Murray either. Not without some “encouragement.”

“Who’s we?”

“The Outfit, Grim. The boys. My Chicago gang.”

“So you farmed it out to the Purples in Detroit?”



“Gorchow. Liam Gorchow. A cheap-assed Jewish wise-guy. A hammer-head. He knew his stuff though. He was a damned good cat burglar.”

“What was the plan?”

“Simple. Gorchow grabs the Kid’s kid. The Kid throws the fight and Murrays takes a dive. The Outfit collects a bundle—Murray was a heavy favorite.”

“Was Bea supposed to die?”

“No, Grim. She was supposed to go home.”

“What went wrong?”

“Gorchow went wrong.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean he grabbed the child all right. But we never saw him again—at least alive that is.”

“Come again.”

“He stashed little Bea somewhere—no one knew where. And then he went on a drinking binge. Somewhere between the kidnapping and reporting back to the Purples at the Stonehouse, he managed to get his dumb-ass killed.”

“Connected to the kidnapping?” I asked.

“Naw. Simply got a snoot-full and picked a fight with the wrong guy. Sober, the dumb-assed bastard would have known better. He was way out of his league—from what I heard, he hit the floor stone dead long before he ever tumbled onto the fact he was making a big mistake.”

“Murray and the Kid didn’t throw the fight.”

“They never got a chance to. Gorchow was supposed to deliver the message. Trouble was, he got himself killed before he did. Murray knocked the slob out in the third round.”

“So who found the girl’s body?” I asked.

“Nobody. We could never find her. No one could ever find her.”

My blood began to boil. “Then how the hell did you know she was even dead?” I nearly shouted at him, spitting the question out. The ground farted again. Longer, and louder, and hotter this time.

Capone looked panicked. “The clothes. We assumed she was dead from the clothes the cops found down on the waterfront.”

I held my fingertips to my temples. There it was. Again. Almost an instant replay of my watershed moment standing in front of Sheila’s lifeless corpse. And once again, I knew I could change it.

And once again—I knew I couldn’t.

All those many years later, Little Beatrice Alderman would remain missing and presumed dead—forever. For the briefest of moments, I considered sending Al Capone exactly to the place he was sure he was going anyway. But I didn’t. A far greater man than me would have to make that decision—exactly seven years further down the road. I had done all that I could do. I had gotten the Kid his answer.

And I had paid my debt.

It was time for us to go. And fast. The ground seemed to roll under my feet. The landscape looked as though it were about to fall completely apart. And I sure as hell didn’t want to be around when it did. I had another job to do. In Detroit. A Detroit far, far into the future—or was it? I had only imagined the setting where I wanted to go. I had never given a thought as to which direction in time we were traveling to.

Capone was in a full-blown panic. He was seeing exactly what I was—that we were about to witness the ground opening up and us falling in. Maybe that was what he expected—Hell opening its arms to receive him. Me, I knew better. It was time to boogie.

I reached out my hand. Al was only too happy to grab the lifeline. I thought of the Stonehouse Bar in Detroit. I could just feel us start to go as the shadow passed over our heads. I looked up. I will never forget what I saw. It was most definitely not a pterodactyl—or anything else from the distant past either. It was silver-gray and shaped like a bullet. It was metallic, and it was large. Flying. Slowly flying at low altitude over the wastelands that stretched out from us in all directions. I caught a brief glimpse of windows in the side of this strange craft. And another split-second glance of the faces peering out of it.

I didn’t like what I saw very much.

And then we were gone. Back in the Stonehouse. Back in the exact same moment we had departed. Not a single soul in that bar suspected for a moment that we had ever left it. My hand was still locked with Capone’s. The only thing that was very different was the expression of Al’s face. His head swiveled around again, this time to assure himself that he was back where he belonged and not at the gates of Hades. His eyes were as big as saucers.

History would record this encounter. Every book and magazine article that would be written about the great Al Capone for decades to come, would talk about his famous near-death-experience at the old Stonehouse Bar. I would even look it up myself on Wikipedia when I finally got home. It was in there, and it made me smile. The article said that the experience was the main motivating factor in Capone’s decision to end his life of crime after his release from prison in 1940.

Sometimes a time-traveler gets to affect history a little bit in a positive way—without even meaning to. It had been a good day’s work.

Finally, Capone’s gaze returned to me and locked with mine. Not wanting to be unfriendly, I smiled broadly, gave him a wink, and calmly said that I hoped he was going to enjoy his very well-deserved retirement down in Florida. From the somewhat astonished look on his face, I thought he was about ready for it.

I turned, shot Sam Gabriel a quick nod and a wink, doffed my Homburg for a moment, and returned to join my friends across the room.

Man in Fedora and Raincoat


Thanks for reading. See you again soon . . .



The Reckoning: Chapter Twenty-Three . . . Reunion




                 CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE





It was quite possibly the most surrealistic scene I had ever witnessed in my life. I blinked several times to see if I could make it change. It didn’t. I was about to pinch myself to find out if that would help, but I never managed to do it before I was drawn into two of the most fantastic conversations that I had ever been involved in—or ever would—hands down. It was turning into an unusual day—to say the very least.

The first one began with my friends as Capone slowly walked by and headed to the bar. Maggie was first, as she rushed forward to me for a long hug and kiss. I tried to say something, but she just placed her hand over my mouth to shush me.

“No, Johnny. I need to talk first. Then you can answer and tell me if you still want me.”

The look on her face broke my heart, but I obeyed her instructions and just listened.

“I was a fool, Johnny. And I put my feelings, and my fears, way above you. Yeah, that’s right—I made it all about me, and I was about as wrong as a person could ever get to be. I’m sorry for what I said to you when I left. I never want to come between you and your job. And I’m sorry I ever tried to put limits on you or conditions on our relationship. Now I know what you do, Johnny. And I know why you do it. And it makes me love you even more than I did before. I wouldn’t change a single thing about you my love. I’m proud of you and the man you are, and if you’ll take be back I promise I’ll never disappoint you again.”

Her eyes looked up at me hopefully.

“Finished?” I asked.


“Then I just have one question for you, girl. And by the way—you’ve never disappointed me, and I seriously doubt you ever could.”

“What’s the question?”

“Will you marry me?”

“Yes,” she replied without hesitation. “How about this afternoon?”

I couldn’t help but smile as I replied. “Love to, Maggie, but it may have to wait until we get back. I’m pretty sure our modern identifications wouldn’t work too well over at the Justice of the Peace’s office.”

Maggie grinned. “No, I guess they probably wouldn’t. Do you think we’ll be back soon?”

“Yeah, Maggie. If a little plan I just cooked up works out the way I hope it will.”

“I thought you were dead, Johnny. It wasn’t a feeling I liked very much.”

“I thought I was dead too, Maggie,” I replied, thinking that right at this moment she didn’t really need excessive detail about that little matter. There would be plenty of time for talk later.

That was if we all survived, of course.

We hugged then. Long.

“I can’t promise you, Maggie, that my time will never come. What I can promise you is that I will never play fast and loose with either my life or your feelings. And I will never risk my life for anything that is not worthwhile. I don’t need to do this for money. We already have more money that we could use in a couple of lifetimes. I will only do what I do to save human life—period.”

She shook her head affirmatively.

Matt was the next up, as Howard and Linh hung back. I looked Matt in the eye for several seconds. He looked back, eyes unwavering. Finally I spoke. “Thank you.”

“Do you know what I did?”


All of it?”

“Yes. And I understand. I understand everything. I love you, Matt.”

“I love you too, Johnny. I couldn’t let you go.”

Then he and I hugged. Long. Our little group was beginning to attract some attention. Even Scarface, Brick and the Kid were looking over. I ignored them. Capone would see enough of me soon enough. Probably enough for the rest of his miserable life.

“How did you find us, Matt?”

“Followed the watch, after a bit of deduction of just about where you and Brick would be.”

“You found the watch?”

“Not exactly, Johnny—but I know what you did with it.”


“Absolutely. The solution was perfect.”

“I thought you’d never part with it, Matt.”

“Not long ago that would have been true, Johnny.”

“What happened?”

“Everyone has to grow up sooner or later.”

“You’re eighty-five, Matt.”

He smiled as he replied. “Some people take longer than others.” For the first time in my relationship with McCabe, I couldn’t see the sharp points of his canine teeth through his grin.

It was a good look for him.

Howard and Linh closed the circle. I got a third hug from Linh as Howard and I settled for handshakes. Howard was not exactly a teary-eyed and huggie type guy, but Linh, after what she had just witnessed with Maggie, Matt and I, beamed like a major shipping lane lighthouse.

“He’s back, Johnny. Matt’s back. Maybe close to all the way.”

“I’m glad, Linh”

Howard spoke up. “What are you doing here, Johnny?”

“Having a soda, what else, Howard?”

Howard looked pained. “I mean 1940, you nitwit.”

“Hanging, and hiding out for a while, Howard. I think they call it “laying-low” in the crime novels. And paying a debt. I’ll fill you all in a little later.”

“What stage you at right now, Johnny?”

“The debt. I’m going to settle that one right now, and I’ve got a pretty damned good idea on how to do it too, Howard.”

“Gonna take long?”

“Just the wink of an eye.”

“You know who that is at the bar don’t you, Johnny?”

“I know.”

Howard grinned. “Can’t wait for the show. Be careful though partner. That man isn’t exactly a choir-boy.”

“I know he isn’t—but I’m gonna see if I can make him sing, just the same.”

I sheep-dogged our little gang over to a table, as I motioned for the Kid and Brick to stay where they were. The number of players in the room was getting kind of large and unmanageable. But I only had eyes for one—Capone.

My eyes locked with Gabriel. The time had come and he knew it. Sam nodded his assent and made his way down the bar toward his brother. After a brief brotherly side hug, Sam started talking while he pointed across the room at me. I could see Capone’s face and the doubtful look on it. It was easy to see that he was guarded, if not downright suspicious. I sure the hell hoped that old Al was buying the bullshit Sam was shoveling him. If he wasn’t, it was going to get dicey real fast. I didn’t think the bulge in his jacket was a sack of hard candy. The same went for the two goon bodyguards on either side of him. If my timing were off by only a split-second or two, the entire Stone House Bar could be turned into a slaughterhouse.

And that was something I wasn’t really ready to risk with my two favorite ladies in the whole world present.

Not to mention my yet unborn god-son, Albert.

Gabriel motioned me over.

Showtime, I thought.

Sam started. “Al, I’d like you to meet a friend of mine—Johnny O’Brien. Johnny, this is my brother, Alphonse Gabriel Capone.”

The suspicion returned to Capone’s eyes. For just a moment I was pretty sure this wasn’t going to work. Then slowly—very, very slowly, he stuck out his hand for a shake. I took it solidly in mine.

And then, we both disappeared.



Washington, DC

Present Day



     Shahida Faris, along with Officers Weeks and Wiggins, were in the bedroom, well out of earshot of Agent Kessler. They sat on three opposite corners of the bed, with Weeks’ laptop between them. On the large and bright screen was a diagram of the United States Capitol Building.

“The thing is massive,” Shahida said. “It’ll take a small army to cover it all.”

“I don’t understand why we can’t just go to the cops and the FBI,” Weeks said.

“Well, we could give it a try, and it might even work—if they believed us,” Wiggins explained. “Trouble is, we don’t know for sure what our present status is. We could be classified as rouge right now, and the same for Shahida at the bureau. We could all get ourselves shot on sight.”

“Yeah, I guess that’s true,” Weeks allowed. “So then, what’s our plan?”

Faris spoke up. “I’m sorry guys, but I’m about out of plans. I got into this thing with two partners, and I’m not even very sure right now where they are, or even if they’re alive for that matter. I can’t ask you two to get further involved with what may very well become a suicide mission.”

Weeks smiled. “You didn’t ask us. We volunteered. We still do.”

“Yeah,” Wiggins chimed in, a big goofy smile on his face. “We be like best friends now. Besides—it’s not hopeless. I may be able to come up with a secret weapon.”

“Grampa?” Weeks asked.

“Yeah, if I can get him on his private line.”

“I’m going to take a wild guess here boys, and say your grandfather had a little something to do with my rescue.”

“Yeah,” Wiggins answered. “He’s been suspicious of the bureau for a while.”

“How far away is he?”

“About ten minutes.”

“Then give it a try. You never know,” Shahida said.

“We should probably be getting out of this apartment pretty soon.”

“You’re right,” Shahida said. “We’ll leave Kessler tied-up here. He’ll be okay. Where’s the least likely place for anyone to come looking for us?”

“I’d say Central,” Wiggins said.

“I like it,” Shahida agreed.

“Good place to meet Gramps—if he’s willing.”

“Okay, it’s settled then. Let’s get going.”


     On the road

     Present Day



“You seem quiet this morning.”


“Your lost innocence?” Moradi said.

“Something like that,” the Ice Queen replied.

“Where will you go, after this is over? What will you do? What’s next for Sandra Buckles?”

She ignored the question. “How much did the President promise you for this job?”

“A billion. But only a fool would think that he ever intended to deliver.”

“You plan to kill him too, don’t you?”

“Of course. That was always what I intended to do.”

“Do you care anything at all about Islamic Jihad?

“Don’t be absurd, Sandra. I care no more for the politics or religions of men than you do. Oh, you like your money and your pretty things. You want to be damned sure you don’t end up back in the projects—but money’s not your focus, is it?”


“So what makes the Ice-Queen tick?”

“I don’t know. The fear I instill, I guess—it brings a kind of fame.”

“Why don’t you stick with me then,” Moradi said. “Infamy is my middle name. I enjoyed last night.”

“I didn’t.”

“Brave words, Sandra dear. You know what I could do to you.”

“Have at it. I don’t care.”

“I could make you care, Sandra dear.”

“Doubt it. Not today.”

“Why should we speak of unpleasant things, Sandra? Let’s speak of our success, our immortality, our legend.”

“And what will you call that, Saal—the legend of the damned?” It was the first time she had ever used his first name. It did not go unnoticed.

“Very familiar.” Moradi said.

“We are now much closer than we used to be, Saal—bodily fluid wise, that is.”

“Careful . . . Sandra Buckles,” Moradi said.

“And where do you think you will go, Saal?—after all this is over. Where on the face of this earth do you really think you can hide? You will be the most wanted man on the planet.”

Moradi laughed. The sound began deep in his chest and slowly and amazingly softly rumbled out from his mouth. It was not a pleasant nor a friendly sound. The rustle of dead leaves and bones. “What makes you think, Sandra, my dearest, that I plan to escape to any place on earth?”

The Ice-Queen cocked her head questioningly.

“Satan has many worlds, my lovely,” Moradi said softly, his voice dripping with venom.

“And Satan has other realms.”



Washington, DC

Present Day



Shahida, Weeks and Wiggins sat, rather uncomfortably on hard backed metal chairs, facing an equally disreputable looking older desk. It was a small and dark room, lighted by only a single bullet lamp sitting in a corner atop a large and wobbly stack of file folders. The lamp had been twisted upwards to shine on the ceiling, thereby throwing more radiated light into the room than would have been expected from the small wattage bulb. It cast eerie shadows as Harold Wiggins entered the room and sat down at the desk.

He smiled and nodded toward Officer Wiggins. “How you doing sonny?”

“Not bad pops. You?”

“Not bad for an old guy.” The conversation with his grandson apparently at an end, he turned his attention to Faris.

“You don’t much seem to like to stay dead.”

“I spent a little time in a casket recently. I don’t recommend it. Boring. And the conversation sucked.

“I’ll try to remember that,” Wiggins replied.

“So what do you do around here?” Shahida questioned.

“Basically run notes between Central and the Bureau.”

“Guess they don’t know there’s such things as phones and computers these days,” Shahida said.

Wiggins grinned. “For some things you just can’t beat good old paper and pencil.”

“Things like what?”


“Serious charge.”

“Serious felony. You don’t believe it, Agent Faris?”

“I can hardly believe it.”

“What? You don’t think such a thing could happen right here in the good old US of A?”

“It reeks of tin-pot dictators and banana republics.”

Wiggins’ eyes bore into her. “Just what the hell do you think America has become under this President. He was never anything but an agent of foreign interests. Bought and paid for with thirty pieces of silver. Makes Benedict Arnold look like a Catholic schoolboy. Abraham Lincoln said that America would never be defeated by a foreign army. He said our undoing would come from within. Guess the voters in the last election cycle forgot to read a little Greek Mythology. Specifically the story of the Trojan Horse.”

“You don’t seem to care for our commander-in-chief very much, Agent Wiggins.”

“Just Mr. Wiggins will do, Agent Faris. On second thought, what the hell—just make it Harold. We’re all friends here.”

“Are we?”

“Why did you sign up for the FBI, Agent Faris?”

“Wanted to keep America strong.”

“You love your adopted country that much?”

“I love it a whole hell of a lot more than the place I came from.”

“Personal for you, Agent Faris?”

“Yeah—personal for me. I left some good people in the ground back there. A lot of those people were my family. Not many of them went to their graves whole. We were not exactly best buds of the mullahs.”

“Then we’re friends, Agent Faris.”

“Shahida,” she replied.

Wiggins nodded his head and smiled briefly. “You know a little American history, and some of our somewhat less than stellar ‘leaders’ don’t you?”

“I know enough to have passed my citizenship test. Plus I’m a pretty avid reader.”

Wiggins grinned again. “Welcome to America.”

“Thank you.”

“Where’s your team, Shahida?”

“Damned good question, Harold. Might be dead for all I know. You know anything different?”

Wiggins shook his head negatively. “I’ve known Brick for a long time. I’m pretty sure he’ll be okay. Johnny O’Brien—him I don’t know. I’ve heard enough though, to think he’s a man that doesn’t like to stay dead for very long either.”

“He struck me that way, the one time I met him. So what’s the deal with his watch?” Shahida asked.

“His watch?”

“Yeah. There’s something special about it. The President wants it.”

“The President told you that.”


“Why would he tell you that?”

“Dunno. He’s a braggart, and he probably didn’t figure me to be alive for much longer.”

“Truth that,” Wiggins replied. “You were never supposed to leave the White House alive.”

“I wouldn’t have, if it hadn’t been for your grandson and Officer Weeks.”

“Trey’s a good kid.”

“A chip off the old block?” Shahida asked.


“Says his lawman line runs back to the frontier days.”

“You could say that,” Wiggins replied. “I did a stint in Deadwood, South Dakota. These feet have stood where Wild Bill’s did.”

“You lived longer.”

“I did.”

“Don’t play poker?”

“I do. What I don’t do is turn my back.”

“You’re not going to turn it now either are you, Harold?”

“Not a chance.”

“Got a plan?”

“Yeah—save as many congressmen as I can. There’s a bunch of worthless bastards, but they didn’t bring this one on themselves for once, and they don’t deserve to die.”

“Gonna save the President too?”

“Nope. That worthless sack of dog shit can save himself—and good luck to him in the effort. If he lives I’ll have in ass in irons.”

“So what about the watch?”

“Damned if I know, Shahida. Could be a chip in it. Information, a secret code—who the hell knows? Could be anything. If the President wants it, then whatever is in it is worth a bunch. Well keep an eye out for it. Whatever it is might just help to put the Prez away, along with a few of his cohorts.”


“Damned right. Where you go now sweetie, I be going too.”

“Why not? The more the merrier.”

“That’s the spirit, Shahida.”

“Why not call in the Bureau?”

“Because Kessler isn’t the only rotten egg in the Bureau by a long shot. We could end up with bullets in our backs. Same with Central. Scum-bag POTUS has his admirers and henchmen everywhere. We die and the nation’s last hope is gone.”

“It’s just that serious, isn’t it?”

“Damn straight. Moradi is actually small potatoes in the giant scheme of things. The President though—he holds the future of American democracy in his slimy little hands.”

“What’s next, Harold?”

“Get the four of us out of here without being seen—same as we got in. Then you and your pups are going to get a crash-course on congressional life insurance policies.”

“Like the ones on paper?”

“Hardly. Like the ones where you shag your ass out of the building, before some bad-guy lights it up. The House and the Senate both have back doors.”

“Don’t most buildings?”

“Not like these. These go under the Capitol Building, and run for about four-hundred and fifty yards. Then they come up in another government building. An underground parking garage. One outfitted with plenty enough vehicles to whisk away hundreds of people in very short order. There’s even a helicopter pad topside to take away the big cheese.”

“Sounds like you already have this covered.”

“Not entirely. The biggest problem is the fact that there are two tunnels. We are going to have to figure out which one they are going to use to evacuate the building when the shit starts. Our ‘posse’ is just a tad bit on the small side.”

“Got a plan, Harold?”


“Want to share it?”

“Find a way to connect with Brick and O’Brien. And figure out what Mr. Saal Moradi is going to do next, even before he knows.”

“Shouldn’t be much of a problem—Wild Bill,” Shahida observed.

“Shouldn’t be a problem indeed,” Wiggins agreed with a grin.


4 (2)



   Thanks so much for reading. See you again shortly with another installment of THE RECKONING.

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