Author Topic: The Hard Way (Read 26017 times)

Murometz · « **on:** January 22, 2011, 01:13:24 PM »

Nothing for hundreds of miles but interstate and cornfields...

He walked into the seedy motel bar and skipped the stools for a small table in the corner of the room, his back to the wall. Always with his back to the wall. This was his way. He could see the whole place. See everyone who came in and out, nothing behind him, no surprises.

An old man in disheveled clothing and a red-veined alcoholic's nose approached.

"Drink?"

"No."

The old man scratched his balding head.

"You know this is a bar, right?"

"Yeah."

Another pause.

"Can i get you something else?"

"Coffee."

"Sugar? Milk?"

"No."

The old bartender paused again.

"You with the program?"

"Program?"

"Yeah, you know, I figured, guy your size, around these parts..." the bartender trailed off, as the stranger looked up at him for the first time. His eyes were cold, black motes, like those of a shark.

"You mean football?"

"Yeah, that's what I mean. You a cornhusker coach or something? Play in your day?"

"No. I don't play."

The way the stranger said these last words, made the bartender's hairs stand on his neck.

"You're not much for talk."

The stranger said nothing.

"I'll, uh--get your coffee now"

"Ok."

The old man shuffled back to the bar. Who the hell was this guy he thought as he poured the coffee. He was trouble, thats who. No doubt about it.

----------------------------------------------------------------------

60 miles east of motel...

"How many rounds in the victim?"

"Two. Both in the head"

"Nine millimeter?"

"Almost certainly. I'm waiting for the report."

"It's a common round."

"I know."

"Geography work?"

"Not sure."

Silence.

"There has to be a vehicle involved too."

"Why?"

"Wait until you see the photographs."

Pause

"So we ready to roll?"

Siren no Orakio · « **Reply #1 on:** January 22, 2011, 05:35:38 PM »

As the old man returned to the table with the coffee, Frank Castiglione was nearly as still as a statue of himself. Only the faintest of nods even acknowledged the man's presence any further, at least until he lifted the burnt, scalding liquid to his lips. Bitter and painful. Just the way he'd rather have it.

No, he reflected, too, he wasn't trouble. But trouble liked to find him. It was why he had finally gotten himself a half a dozen bounty hunting licenses across the Midwest. Enough that when trouble showed up, he could beat the snot out of it, and chuck it back into the can, and maybe even get paid for it. Almost all of it did get chucked back in.

Brooding over that thought, the bit that never quite wound up back where it belonged, Frank scowled into his coffee, ever so slowly draining the cup, until something more caught his ear, and eyes.

Murometz · « **Reply #2 on:** January 22, 2011, 07:02:05 PM »

20 miles east of motel...

A gun-metal gray, sleek yet muscle-bound F150, flareside, with a turbo kit, droned along the interstate, whatever engine noise there was, drowned out by the squeeling and screeching of Giddy Lee on the radio...

"...today's Tom Sawyer mean, mean pride.....his mind is not for rent, to any god or governement..."

The driver paused from trying to match Giddy note for note, and glanced in his rearview. Four state trooper cars, lights on, were crusing at about 85 miles an hour, and gaining on the truck quickly.

The driver tapped the plastic fingers of his left hand on the steering wheel.

------------------------------------------------

"20 miles to target."

"Roger that."

Siren no Orakio · « **Reply #3 on:** January 22, 2011, 08:12:14 PM »

The last bastard he had broken up and hauled in was a dealer. Wheezy little bail jumper had thought his connections were gonna take him down to Mexico real fast - Turned out the gangs were tired of him too. Frank'd barely even gotten any stress relief out of the man. Police had to to rely on his dentals to recognize him by the time the Kings were done with him, and that's never good for the paycheck. It had seemed like a good time to get out of town.

And now, Frank was just driving, and waiting. Waiting for the smell of trouble. He usually hated waiting, but that was because waiting usually came from someone else's choices. But this was his choice. Another slurk of the bitter black tar that passed as coffee. It hit the ticket, as his eyes came up to look around once more, and he lifted one little bud to his left ear, and thumbed the power button. The miniature police scanner had been a smart purchase. Helped him keep his ears to the ground.

Scrasamax · « **Reply #4 on:** January 22, 2011, 09:21:36 PM »

Most of the time former Lieutenant John 'Cutter' Foster was the sort of guy that the police overlooked. He could usually get away with a mostly sincere 'sorry officer, my last ride could only do 30 mph' The VFW and Desert Storm Vet stickers told the rest of the story. The 'My other truck is a Tank' sticker was so faded no one could read it. He checked his speed, sometimes he did let the turbo carry him away. But even in the soggy gut of the country it didn't take 4 troopers to nail a speeder. Well there were some places in Alabama where driving while black did get that sort of attention. Cutter eased over to give the po-po's a clear shot through.

His bladder was getting full, the gas tank was getting low and his supply of Dasani and pringles were about out, pit stop next right.

Murometz · « **Reply #5 on:** January 23, 2011, 12:40:38 AM »

Through the scratching buzz of the police scanner, Frank could make out two things. One, the local coppers’ station was about 60 miles away, this was a vast county, and the motel he had stopped in, a mere speck on the utterly flat landscape. Two, the state troopers were on the chase instead.

No problem there.

Except that the chase seemed to be on for an individual fitting Frank’s description to a tee.

Well close enough anyway. Big guy, ex-military, approach with caution, arrest and apprehend. How many guys like that hanging around in this particular corner of Nebraska?

Problem there.

Target’s vehicle identified as a black Mustang Boss 302.

Big problem.

They were looking for him. More like hunting than looking. He was confused but not worried. He’d been a bad boy on occasion (and recently), but nothing to warrant a state trooper high-speed chase. Frank wasn’t the type to ask why though. He just started thinking laterally and quickly. What the f*** is going on?

Decision time.

Murometz · « **Reply #6 on:** January 23, 2011, 11:49:37 AM »

Cutter pulled up to the motel. The 4 trooper cars had raced by him. No sirens. Silent mode. He spied 2 more troopers behind him, lights on, sound off, and a dark green Crown Vic close behind them. These 3 cars unlike the first 4, looked like they were slowing down.

They were pulling in behind him.

Cutter emerged from his truck and looked around. Motel sign claimed “Occupancy”. A bud light sign portended libations.

No gas station around.

The troopers surrounded a parked black Mustang, like moths surrounding a lamp. Cutter could hear the unmistakable sound of shotguns being locked and loaded.

Not his problem.

He walked in.

2 people.

Old timer behind the bar, and a big looking fellow sitting at the far end of the room. Sitting like a statue. All rigid and lethal looking. The man seemed lost in his own thoughts, as if he was listening to some voice in his own head.

Welcome to middle-of-nowhere, Nebraska.

Murometz · « **Reply #7 on:** January 23, 2011, 11:54:49 AM »

Special Agent Laura Froelich, FBI, followed the troopers in her forest-green Crown Vic, while fumbling a folder with her right hand. Opening the file, she laid it on the passenger seat so she could sneak a peek while driving. It was dusk. Doing 80 and trying to read was proving difficult. She caught only snippets of the file, Bits of info flashing from the page.

Name/ Frank Castiglione/DOB/ 1/1/72, Ht/Wt/6’4” 240/Record/ 12 years/ US Army/ Rank achieved/ Major/Special Forces training/Transfer/110th MP/Special Investigator/Medals/Citations/Silver Star, etc

She had read the file in its entirety earlier. knew the type. Profiling was part of her skillset.

Marches to his own drum. Loner. Lethal.

The more she got to know Frank Castiglione over the last few hours through his file, the more concerned she got, and the more she questioned the facts. Yet the MO seemed to fit.

Male, ex-army, chained to bumper and dragged for 5 miles through cornfields, then shot systematically twice in the skull. Pop. Pop. The end.

But why torture first before the clean execution? That didn’t fit.

Laura put her thoughts on hold, as a grimy motel with a garish neon sign came into view.

--------------------------------------------------

Frank was listening to the same information Agent Froelich was hearing on the police band.

4 cars up ahead, 2 blocking off Rt 75, 2 blocking Rt 9. Only ways out of here. Only 2 ways to reach the Interstate. 2 more cars right in front of her, pulling in beside the motel. Black Mustang 302 Boss parked in front. Go time.
--------------------------------------------------

A man walked in. Young, average build, wiry, sandy hair. Nothing unusual about him, Frank thought, except for the unmistakable scent of military about him. Frank always knew. Second nature.

Siren no Orakio · « **Reply #8 on:** January 23, 2011, 03:55:08 PM »

After a brief second's thought, that statue arose, reaching the bar itself about the same time as the door opened to admit the young man. d**n. That'll make things uglier. Still, such was life. Frank reached across the bar to the edge of the shelving at the back of the horse-shoe shape, grabbing a bottle of rotgut by the neck, even as he flopped a pair of tens from his pocket on the bar. It would cover the cheap crap, and then some. "Taking this." It wasn't really a question, more of a statement.

He went to sit, too, still in a corner, this one with his back comfortably wedged into the masonry, the large plate glass window just out of reach. As he shifted and settled into the seat, he nodded to the kid, the tiny click of a snap coming undone coming from somewhere within his clothing as he unscrewed the bottle, setting it on the table in front of him, without taking a swig first. Fishing a cigarette from somewhere inside his coat, he lifted it to his lips and lit it, taking a deep drag. Not the best place to be for this, but he had a plan now. Plans were good.

Scrasamax · « **Reply #9 on:** January 23, 2011, 07:44:27 PM »

The bar was tense, bomb weather. Cutter took a seat at the far end of the bar. Sometimes cover was more important than a way out. The entire place felt wrong but a full bladder is a thing that is hard to ignore. Not really expecting serious business he only had a .44 tucked in a shoulder holster, the license to carry it tucked between his Alabama state drivers license and his certification card to drive the M1A1 main battle tank. He ordered a pair of bud lites and a bowl of peanuts.

'So I noticed the entire d**n county sheriff's department is out in a tiff. Someone rob a bank or is there a manhunt going on? I've been doing the cross country thing for a few days and haven't watched much news. Didthe help I've fallen woman in that commercial ever get help?' he asked

Siren no Orakio · « **Reply #10 on:** January 24, 2011, 07:56:41 PM »

"Radio says manhunt." Frank shrugged, as he took another drag on his cigarette. "Probably pulled the wrong profile, too, knowing the way they operate out in the boonies like this. Amateurs." Can't even hold radio silence for five @!#$ing minutes. Well. Competent or not, they're just trying to do their job, the big man supposed. Can't fault them for that. Talking right now might work better. "And yeah. Rescue 9-11 showed up... eventually."

For a moment more, Frank sized up the kid, considering. Too young for 'nam or Grenada. Gulf? Or maybe Panama. Ugly job, either way.

Murometz · « **Reply #11 on:** January 24, 2011, 08:26:51 PM »

Door opens. Four state troopers. All from the same catalogue, big boys with mustaches and buzz cuts. Shotguns sweeping the room like flashlights.

Bartender ducks behind the bar (literally). One of the troopers begins shouting,

“No one move! Sir, please put your hands on the bar where I can see them (to Cutter)”

(Place hands on bar while not moving, Frank managed to muse to himself.)

“Sir, remain seated, hands on table. (to Frank). Now! Do it, do it!”

Three troopers moved toward Frank’s table, shotguns pointing the whole time. They circled him like wary lion tamers about to open a cage. One spoke,

“Frank Castiglione. You are under arrest. You have the right to remain---“

Miranda rights. Named for Ernesto Arturo Miranda, who was later retried and found guilty anyway. But Frank would bet these boys didn’t know that.

The door opened again, and a tall, striking woman walked in. Long legs, long black hair, and the unmistakable look of a hunter in her ice-blue eyes. She was dressed in tight jeans and a dark-green college sweatshirt that read, “Dartmouth Hockey”. Holstered fire-arm at her side. She walked in with the confidence of someone who was used to getting her way, and usually if not always, being right.

She paused to glance at Cutter, managed to smile at him, then turned toward Frank and the smile vanished.

“I am special agent Froelich with the local FBI office. You are Frank Castiglione. As you see, you are under arrest. I would save the small-talk and just take you in, but it is too long of a drive and I’m too curious. So instead, I’ll join you for a cup of coffee, I don't drink on duty (she motions to the bottle), and you will tell me where you were exactly---she looked at her watch-- 51 hours ago.”

Deadpan. That was her thing. D**n beautiful though. And sharp. Like a dominatrix and a good ol' girl rolled up into one.

Without waiting for a reply, she sat across from Frank. The troopers had not moved a muscle, three statues, pointing three shotguns, all in the vicinity of Frank’s face.

The fourth was at the bar with Cutter. “Sir, I need to see some identification right now!”

Murometz · « **Reply #12 on:** January 24, 2011, 08:29:04 PM »

750 miles north and west of motel…

The brand new, shiny semi rumbled along the Canadian interstate until Alberta, then veered south along local highways, headed for the border. Before nearing the state line, it would change direction again, this time east. It would keep snaking this way, until it got to that special spot, where a border crossing would be safest, considering its cargo.

Penthouse Suite, Bellagio Hotel, Las Vegas, Nevada…

(phone rings somewhere in Nebraska)

“Yes?”
“Is my merchandise still on time?”
“Slight delay. I’m sure you understand. Two days max.”
Silence.
“Delays upset me.”
“I understand, but my men are—“
“I favored you with my business”
“I know, and I’m grateful, but—“
“I’m going to send two of my guys there. They should arrive by tomorrow morning. They are going stick around, and make sure there are no more delays from your end. Extend them every courtesy. We clear?”
“Yeah, we’re clear. How will I recognize them?”
“Don’t worry, you’ll recognize them.”
Click.

Siren no Orakio · « **Reply #13 on:** January 24, 2011, 09:00:15 PM »

Frank hadn't had to move to comply with any of the commands. So far, so good. That was a fair bit of lead pointed at his face. Would need one hell of a shock to get them off line before he could move. d**n. Still, he cracked a tiny smile at the detective. "Well, Happy, at fifteen thirty-seven, two days ago, I had a seventeen year old skinhead in an armlock in an alley next to a crackhouse in Des Moines."

He paused a moment, waiting for the curiosity or confusion to show on this detective's face, before confusing. "Got lucky, kid was still on the way in, wasn't high. Talked real fast when it started to hurt. Hauled his dealer, Albert something or another, about seventeen aliases, in on a bail jump at awful close to nineteen hundred. 1st Street station, straight to the boys in Vice. Handed him over to one Corporal Nicholson."

Despite the shotguns pointed at him, despite the slight quaver in the frame of the youngest, Frank managed to remain calm. Startling some nervous kid into blowing his head off was real high on his priority list of things to avoid. "Now, you point this much lead at a man's face, telling him he's under arrest, he thinks you think he killed someone, and killed them ugly."

Murometz · « **Reply #14 on:** January 24, 2011, 09:22:51 PM »

One of the trooper statues staring down the barrel of his shotgun at Frank, finally cracked and moved some molecules. He arched an eyebrow at the tale.

Agent Froelich pursed her lips. She glanced toward the bar, away from Frank. "Can I get a coffee?" she waved with her hand, then she looked back at the man sitting before her, and seemed to consider what she was going to say next. She opened her mouth to speak--

Distracted.

"Ma'am?"
"Its not ma'am, its Special Agent Froelich"
Pause
"Uh-Special Agent Froelich?"
"Yes, Riggins?"
"What should I do with this guy?"

It was the 4th trooper. The one that had sweat pouring down his forehead, from trying too hard. He was still pointing a shotgun at Cutter, one-handed, while trying to read Cutter's ID with the other.

"John Foster." the trooper announced.
"So?" asked Froelich, annoyed at the interruption.
"So he's ex-military too. And packing."

At this she looked surprised. "What are the odds of that?"

Suddenly Cutter's cell phone rang in his pocket. Rammstein tune. Loud.

Scrasamax · « **Reply #15 on:** January 25, 2011, 09:40:14 AM »

Always a joker even when it wasnt in his best interests, Cutter disconnected his fake arm and laid it on the counter when the shout came to put his hands on the counter. He grinned like a fool as he handed Captain Shotgun his drivers license, there was something about missing an arm that put people off these days. Curiosity demanded that they look at the stump, while political correctness said it was rude to look, or ask.

"You mind if I get this?" Cutter asked, pointing with one finger towards the pocket of his coat, Du Hast starting over again. d**ned ring tones were never long enough. Cheap bastards. "I mean I don't feel like catching lead from a rookie. Or a guy with a fever?" he asked with a hint of amusement in his voice. Accidents happen, its part of life, but compared to sitting 16 hours in a bombed out building in Basra while the Royal Marines, Uncle Sam's Misguided Children and the Iraqi Republican Guard slugged it out made this look like a day in the park.

"I'll let you hold Becky and my left arm..."

Murometz · « **Reply #16 on:** January 25, 2011, 11:39:53 AM »

Surreal moment.

Everyone staring at Cutter’s left arm on the counter and his .44

Rammstein refuses to be quiet.

If the sweaty trooper was insulted by Cutter, he didn’t show it. Froelich managed a smile.

Du

du hast

du hast mich

du hast mich gefragt

du hast mich gefragt, und ich hab nichts gesagt

“Please” Agent Froelich suddenly said, motioning to Cutter, “Don’t let us keep you.”
Cutter popped open his phone. Too late. Voicemail.

Awkward moment. Frank just sat there.

“Maybe you can check that later, Mr. Foster,” Froelich now said. “Pull up a chair and join us, won’t you?” she deadpanned.

Scrasamax · « **Reply #17 on:** January 25, 2011, 12:15:31 PM »

"Probably not important," Cutter said, putting his prosthetic arm back on, but leaving his revolver on the bar. "I have a permit to carry that," he said, giving the gun a nod. He pulled out a chair and sat down about evenly between the fellow who attracted shotguns like turds draw flies and the dry woman.

"I'd like to see some identification before we go any further," he said taking a swig of his beer. d**n it tasted good, the only thing he drank other than water. d**ned desert took away more than his left arm, it took his taste for soda, coffee, tea, all that sugary sweet crap that he lived on before he joined up. "And don't think I'm horribly impressed with your goons and their shotguns." He turned at looked at the sweaty gunman, the one he now thought of as Captain Shotgun, "Boy, you ever actually pulled a trigger on another human being or you just thrown lead down range?"

Murometz · « **Reply #18 on:** January 25, 2011, 12:56:11 PM »

"ID? Fair enough, I'm surprised you didn't ask sooner."

She took out her ID and laid it out on the table for both men to see.

The word 'special' was featured a lot. Laura Froelich, FBI. Nebraska local division. Special investigator, special task force, special this, special that. Apparently she was special.

"Satisfied?"

The goons in the meanwhile, did not take kindly to being called goons. Their expressions changed. And when Cutter addressed Captain Shotgun with 'boy', the man seemed to grow redder if that was possible, as if his head was about to burst open from the pressure. Still, he did not rise to the bait.

"Tsk, tsk, now, that isn't very nice", Froelich said to Cutter, to break the tension. "These men are just doing their job. I'd really prefer things to remain civil, but if you insist on being interrogated at the station..." she trailed off.

Murometz · « **Reply #19 on:** January 25, 2011, 12:59:09 PM »

“We’ll check your story, Frank.” She said suddenly, turning back to Castiglione once more. “Someone can confirm it, and you’re in the clear.”

"Maybe”, she added. “Nicholson, you said?”

“Let’s stop flirting and get on the dance floor fellas. Shall we?”

“I have a dead ex-army corporal lying in a ditch with two bullet holes in him. 9mm Beretta, US Army standard issue. Ballistics confirmed. Before he was executed he was dragged behind a mustang—that’s also confirmed, Frank—for about 5 miles at about 40 miles per hour. Not pretty. His grieving wife is balling her eyes out at the station as we speak.”

She paused and looked at Frank then Cutter.

“The wife says he was a good guy. Good husband, Good daddy. A regular Jimmy Stewart if you ask her. Not involved in anything shady, no affairs, doesn’t hit her.”

“@!#$ing mystery.” She sipped her coffee.

“Except that the wife mentions that Ronny Jr. had some old Army buddies. Says these old army buddies had some kind of gig going. Something big, and something illegal, she thinks, but not her Ronny Jr., no no, he wouldn’t ‘play’ with the bad boys. Seems she doesn’t even know any of these army buddies by name. Claims he never introduced her to them. We did some checking, couldn’t find any either.”

She paused again seeing if Cutter or Frank had anything to say…

“His name was Ronald Siff, Jr. You boys aren’t his ‘army buddies’ are you? Can you shed any light here, Frank? Foster?” She concluded and sipped her coffee, while keeping her eyes on the two ex-soldiers.

--------------------------------------------------

A lightning shot went through Cutter, but he didn’t show it. Ronald Siff, Jr. Ronny. What were the odds, his thoughts echoed Agent Froelich’s earlier exclamation.

Ronald Siff was Cutter’s CO in the army. A man he trusted and admired. A man he was currently on his way to visit. Ronald Siff had left the Army with an honorable discharge. Severe PTSD. His last tour was the same one that cost Cutter his left arm. Ronald Siff was a man’s man. A trusted leader, loyal friend, and sometimes, even father figure. He was the kind of guy that would not only walk over glass barefoot to save you, but he would sweep the glass away so no one else would get hurt, while doing so. But something snapped in Ronald Siff, and last Cutter heard, he was walled up in some hippy community 40 miles east of Portland, Oregon, learning how to farm.

Ronny Siff, Jr. was his son. Had been his son.
-------------------------------------------------------

“Oh almost forgot, here’s my favorite part, you ready? You know what they found during the autopsy? You’ll love this”, she dead-panned. “They found a 4,500 year old trinket. Babylonian I think they said, maybe Sumerian. Had it tested and everything. What are the odds?”

Odds. This whole day was long on them, Frank thought. What were the odds for example, the troopers knew how to spell Babylonian.

Siren no Orakio · « **Reply #20 on:** January 25, 2011, 03:31:04 PM »

After a moment, Frank decided that the odds that the troopers were able to spell Babylonian were very small. The odds of this woman not being legit were low, too, he'd decided. Why bother to ask for an ID? Official channels had her shoving twelve badges around. Didn't matter if she was real or not, not while the shotguns were pointed at his face.

Still, he shrugged, taking a half drag on the cigarette that still hung from his lips, deftly shifting them to blow the smoke from the other side of his face. Ash was getting long. "Never heard of the man. Been a whole generation of kids in and out of the Army since I was last in uniform. But your lab is d**ned good if it can trace a 9x19 para to a specific make of pistol."

As the artifact is mentioned, he quirks one eyebrow, shaking his head.

"Cute. What'd they do that it took an autopsy to find it, drag a rock doll over from the sandbox to shove it up his arse after they killed him? Sounds like a gang execution. One part making sure the poor bastard can't talk to you, one part warning anyone else who might be thinking of telling them no."

Scrasamax · « **Reply #21 on:** January 25, 2011, 04:54:57 PM »

"I have a few questions to ask of my own. The first is pretty simple, am I a suspect and are you going to arrest me? I am a very reasonable fellow but if we are going down this road of shotguns and civility and Interrogations at the station I am afraid I am going to roll with the 5th and give you name rank and serial number. Nowif we are reallybeing civil let's put away he shotgun pointed at me, I'm a marine mechanic, and one armed, not special forces. I've never killed anyone with a teacup.

If I am being arrested; I'd like my lawyer present before answering any questions. That is unless you really do eat to be civil.

How do you know he was pulled behind a mustang? Or do you mean the horse kind of mustang?" he said, fnishing his beer. Never show fear, never let 'em see you sweat.

Murometz · « **Reply #22 on:** January 25, 2011, 05:12:03 PM »

"Fair enough, Mr. Foster. Let us all be civil. And no, you are not being arrested."

And just like that she motioned to the troopers, who lowered their guns. "Stand down, men. I think Mr. Foster and Mr. Castiglione want to talk to me in earnest."

"We know it was a Mustang because that was our best guess basd on the muddy tracks and tire marks. Then, lo and behold, a witness came forth. A soybean grower with insomnia. Saw a Black Mustang Boss 302 make across his range. Know how he knew it was a Boss 302? He used to own one. Claims he'd recognize the engine sound a mile away. Wanna know why he was 100% sure?

She paused, enjoying her rant at Mr. Foster's expense.

"Night vision goggles. The farmer had them on. Searching for coyotes, you see. That work for you, Mr. Foster?" she smiled content as the Chessire Cat with her bullet-proof proof.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Lab is d**n good, Frank. d**n good. FBI lab, Frank. Serious business."

Pause

"Such colorful language. Gang execution? Maybe. I had thought of that too, but then discarded the theory."

"No, they didn't shove it up his ass, Frank. They didn't have to. Apparently he swallowed the thing, shortly before he--expired."

Coffee sip break. She makes likes she's thinking about something. She was saying, "Frank" a lot. It irritated him.

"You were an MP, right Frank? 6 of your 12 years. Headed a special investigative unit. Says so in your file. Man oh man, you must have made a few enemies in your day, Frank. Nobody likes MP's, and with you're sparkling personality..." She didn't finish the sentence.

"So, tell me, Frank. How would you catch the bad guy, you were me?"

Before Frank could respond, Special Agent Froelich glanced at Cutter again, and seemed to be studying him for a few seconds.

"Everything ok, Mr. Foster? You seem all edgy suddenly. No more jokes? You have any information that can help me here? And by the way, what did you do in the Army? I don't have a file on you. Yet."

Murometz · « **Reply #23 on:** January 25, 2011, 05:25:02 PM »

"One more thing boys, we'll need to check you both for residue. Just routine. You understand, I'm sure. As you probably know, if you have fired your weapons in the last 3 days, we'll know. Then, you're in the clear officially. Or in deep s**t. One or the other."

Scrasamax · « **Reply #24 on:** January 25, 2011, 06:16:31 PM »

"Well I reckon I'm in deep you know what, two days ago islands few magazines at the VFW shooting range, Bud should have my signature logged in the range book. Besides, I don't and won't own a piece of crap like a Mustang, everyone and their uncle has has one. And anyway, you have a gun toting local with night vision goggles as a witness? And he's not a suspect? Sloppy, and from a woman like yourself I wouldn't expect sloppy and loose. You strike me as a dry by the book sensible panties and shoes wearing sort of woman."

Before she cOuld respond, "I know his father, I served with him in Iraq. He's messed up now, pony beads and smoking pot and all that cliche 'nam s**t. I don't think he would stomp a cockroach now. He moved up to Oregon to commune with nature, screech owls and women who don't shave their business." he opened his second beer, "I was on y way to visit him when you guys interrupted my piss and gas stop"