[b]Vancouver[/b] The elevator doors slid open. FCB agent Bryan Simpson walked down the hotel corridor with Mark Echols hobbling right behind him. The two men stopped outside Simpson's hotel room while the agent got his keys out of his pocket. Echols shifted on his feet impatiently and checked his watch. "This could have waited," said Echols. "I won't even start on that book tonight. You could have just given it to me tomorrow." "Come on in," Simpson said with a wink and a smile. "I'm straight... I don't know if you know that..." Simpson disappeared into the darkness of his hotel room. Echols grudgingly followed behind him. He was a few steps in when the lights popped on. He blinked and flinched when he saw two men waiting for them in the room. A thin, dark-haired man in a suit and tie sat in the small room's only chair. Standing by his side was Echols savior from the war. Sergeant Silas Crystal. "Sergeant Echols," Crystal said with a playful smile. "It's Inspector now," Echols said quietly. "I'm out of the service. Like everyone else who served in the NWC armed forces." Simpson sat down on his bed and looked up at Echols. "Mark, I'm sorry about the secrecy. This was the only place I knew we could meet." "So this was a setup?" "A meeting of the minds," the man in the chair said. "Inspector Echols, I'm Mr. Smith. CIA. From what the sergeant tells me, you and he already have a history." "He's the reason why I limp when I walk," Echols said cooly. "I'm also the reason why you have the upper part of your body, Echols." The CIA man stood and motioned for Echols to take his seat. When Echols refused, the man just shrugged and walked towards the window. He stood at the window and looked out as he spoke. "We've been at cross purposes, Inspector. Your investigation and ours." "So you're looking for the Friends of Northwest Sovereignty too? Do you want to bring them in or take them out?" Smith ignored Echols' question and kept talking. "We're like a pair of blind men trying to cook eggs. We have the frying pan, you have the eggs. By themselves, our puzzle pieces aren't telling either one of us anything. We put them together, then a picture emerges." Simpson pulled an envelope from his jacket and laid it on the bed beside him. He looked at Echols before turning towards Smith and Crystal and speaking. "We got a pair of prints from the Peter Leigh crime scene. One is unknown, but one set matches to a former NWC Army private named Chris Walton. A former university student at Simon Fraser. One of his classmates in a political science class was a Joanna Lockhart. Lockhart matches the description of the woman seen with Leigh shortly before his death. Their whereabouts are currently unknown, but we have an APB out for the two of them. There's the information on the two of them, along with the subversive material mailing lists the FCB has collected." Smith turned from the window and walked towards the bed. He picked the envelope up and tucked it into his jacket before looking at Echols. "Arthur Stewart. That's the name of the third member of the group. An informant identified him and a man he only knew as Alex. Research has led to some disturbing information. Alex has a contact in Canadian intelligence. The Friends of Northwest Sovereignty are operating with at least partial sanction from Canada." Echols closed his eyes to stop the spinning. He could hear his own pulse in his ears. A wave of nausea hit him. He had to swallow hard to keep from puking. When he opened his eyes, all three men were watching him. "This is why I'm working with them, Mark" said Simpson. "We need to work together, and we need to do it fast. So far, Leigh is the only person they've killed but that could change tomorrow, or for all I know in an hour. They're out there and we know who they are, but we need to find them before a war starts." "And we have our orders, Inspector," Crystal said with a raised eyebrow. "And that is to stop these people by any means necessary. If that means bypassing the laws, if that means we're bypassing those laws to stop a war, then so be it." Echols gripped his cane so tightly his hands and knuckles were turning white. He looked at Crystal and nodded. "Let's go." ----- [b]Toledo, Ohio[/b] [i]"Swigitty swooty, quiero ese culo! Chica, sabes que tienes que bailar. Baila conmigo y swigitty swooty, quiero ese culo! Culo tan fino Quiero tomar un bocado y swigitty swooty, quiero ese culo!"[/i] Billy Carter was working up a sweat on the dance floor. The dance floor, in this case, was a basement in suburban Toledo. He held on tightly to his dance partner's hips as they shimmied and shook with the fast-paced number. Nobody could understand the words to the song, but one of the college kids there knew Spanish and promised it was very dirty. The thing that amazed Billy was not the music or the dancing itself, but it was his dance partner. She was a white co-ed from UT just a few years older than Billy. He'd been dancing with her for nearly a half hour now and nobody seemed to notice or cared. But then again they weren't the only mixed raced couple on the floor. One other black man danced with a white girl while a few white boys danced with black girls, one of those white boys was Billy's fellow Mud Hen Matt Robinson. Billy and Matt and nearly all the Mud Hens were at the party with the UT students, celebrating sweeping the Canton Cougars in a four-game series. [url=https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gY2M9qxGuCk](Music)[/url] A slow number came on after the dance number faded. Billy and his dance partner got in close and he put his hands on her hips as they slow danced. The girl was probably twenty pounds heavier than Billy, but she wore her extra weight well. "I need to get something to drink," Billy whispered in her ear. "I'll be back." He walked through the basement towards the makeshift drink table. A half dozen six packs of soda flanked a large metal tub packed with ice and dozens of cans of beer. Billy pulled one out and popped the top. "Yo." Country Jones sat in a metal folding chair beside the table, nursing a beer. Even sitting down the big man was nearly Billy's height. Country patted the folding chair beside him. "Take a seat right quick." Billy plopped down and started in on his beer. He hadn't really drunk beer before joining the ball club. Lots of the other boys swore by it, but it always left a bad taste in Billy's mouth. But right now his thirst convinced him it was the best damn thing in the world. "How come you ain't partying, Country?" "This is how I party." "Looks mighty lonely if you ask me." "I don't recall asking your scrawny ass nothing," Country snapped. "But I see you're having a good time." "Whole damn team is having a good time," Billy grinned. "That is, except you." "You never been down south before, right?" Country asked. "Ohio is the farthest I've been." Country leaned back in his chair. Billy sipped his beer and watched the dance floor pick back up as another fast number kicked on. He turned and looked back at Country. He was there at the party, but his eyes weren't. They were unfocused, gone to some place that was not here and some time that was not then. "You all need to be careful out there on the dance floor." "What do you mean?" Country's eyes regained their focus as he turned to look at Billy. "I mean, the white people at this party are fine with you dancing with the white girls, but that's gonna be it. You understand? This ain't like where I'm from, and that's a credit to them, but it ain't that much better." Billy scowled. "The fuck you talking about, nigga?" "The college kids who let us come here," Country said with a dismissive wave towards the dance floor. "They're letting us party and dance with the white people so they can tell everyone about that time they let a bunch of negroes come to their party and dance with their women. They want to show everyone that they ain't racist because they had a few black people over to party that one time. And it'll probably be just this one time too. To me, that shit is more racist than the crackers I grew up with in Arkansas. Even if you hated their guts, at least you knew where you stood with them." "That's how it works up here," Billy said with a shrug. "Northern racism is a lot more subtle than the Southern kind. And it ain't as violent. You ask me would I rather be here, dancing with a white girl I know I can't fuck, or would I rather be in Mississippi where they just fucking torched an entire family of negroes? Nigga, it ain't even a fucking question." Billy turned his beer can up and drained it in a few quick gulps. He crushed the tin can in his hands and tossed it on the floor beside him. There was a sparkle in his eyes as he turned to meet Country's gaze. "And another thing, Country? If the white people here feel that way, then I say fuck them. I am Billy Carter. I am black, I am pretty, I'm leading the Ohio League in stolen bases, and I am the fasted goddamn man, black or white, this side of the Mississippi. I am who I am and if they don't like it, tough shit. I'm going back to the party." Billy stood and headed back to the dance floor with a fresh beer. He took his waiting partner by the hand as the Spanish song started back up. [i]"Swigitty swooty, quiero ese culo! Chica, sabes que tienes que bailar. Baila Conmigo y swigitty swooty, quiero ese culo! Culo tan fino Quiero tomar un bocado y swigitty swooty, quiero ese culo!"[/i] ----- [b]Hyannis Port, Massachusetts[/b] Sean McKenna cruised up the paved driveway towards the sprawling mansion. Elliot rode in the passenger seat, his right wrist handcuffed to the door handle. The BPD were waiting for him at Helena's apartment. They had all the files Jane Wilson stole from Liam Kane, and they had the girl and Helena in their possession. Jane was charged with first-degree murder, Elliot and Helena with accessory to murder after the fact. Elliot spent six hours in a BPD hot box while a couple of kiddie cops tried to sweat him. He told them to fuck off. They almost went at him with the phone book when a phone call stopped them cold in their tracks. Sean showed up with a pair of cuffs and they headed out to the Cape. This wasn't Elliot's first trip to the big house out on Cap Cod. He was here just six months ago helping his benefactor's son with a sticky situation. Elliot smoothed everything over and got paid a cool ten grand for his trouble. He reminded himself that that job, plus the dozen other jobs he'd done for the family and its patriarch, was why he wasn't in the city jail and facing ten to life. "They're waiting for you by the pool. You can go inside," McKenna said as he stopped the car and passed Elliot the handcuff key. "And go only inside, Elliot. I'm under strict orders to shoot you if you try to make a run for it." Elliot unlocked the handcuffs and rubbed his sore wrist. "Would you actually do it, Sean? After being your friend for so long?" McKenna's face contained just a hint of a grin. "I'd shoot to wound. And that's because we've been friends for so long." He climbed out the car and walked into the big house. It was a ghost town, not even household staff in sight. Elliot walked down corridors paneled with rich wood on both sides and a glossy hardwood floor underfoot. In the back was the pool area. A large underground swimming pool had a picture perfect view of the ocean. Two men sat waiting for Shaw at a metal table beside the pool. "Our guest of honor," Big Jim Dwyer said with a short bark of a laugh. "Big" Jim was a runt. Elliot measured him at five foot six and maybe a buck fifty soaking wet. His white hair and pale skin and tweed jacket with a bow tie made him look like a kindly old librarian or mid-level civil servant. The truth was that Dwyer was without a doubt the most ruthless man in the Commonwealth. "Elliot!" Seated next to Dwyer was Elliot's patron. The man who saw his usefulness even when he was BPD, the man who greased the wheels after his messy exit from the force and helped him become a PI, and the man who gave him work when he became a PI. Now, he held Elliot's future in his hands. "It's been too long," Edward Kennedy said with welcoming smile. "Have a seat." Teddy Kennedy. The last surviving son of Diamond Joe, the patriarch of the Kennedy Family. Teddy took Diamond Joe's fortune and made it grow exponentially. If it made money, Teddy and his conglomerates either owned it or made money off of it in some way. Teddy's wore shorts, a knit sweater, and boat shoes. His dark hair was peppered with gray. He'd lost a little weight since Elliot saw him last, making his already large head seem even more massive. "I'd like to thank you for helping X out. That was a delicate situation." "Xavier is a good kid," Elliot said with a shrug. "I hated to see him in a pickle like that. Plus, the pay was nice." "Damn kid acts more like Jack than Bobby," Teddy said with a sigh. "That's the third scrape I've had to pay for in the last two years." "To business?" Dwyer asked impatiently. They stopped talking as a servant brought out three gin and tonics on a tray. Teddy smiled and nodded at the servant. "Thank you, Wendell." "You've pissed off the wrong people, son," Dwyer said once they were alone. "You've pissed off me and the people who owe me. And the people who owe me are the type of people who kill when they're angry." Elliot took a long swig of his drink. "So I saw first hand." "The only reason you're even alive is because Ted speaks so highly of you." Teddy pulled a cigarette from a pack on the table and lit up. "I've worked out a deal for you, Elliot. One that Jim has consented to." "You're done in Boston," Dwyer said softly. "You're done in Massachusetts. You're done in New England. I don't care where you go, but it will not be here. Your little friend Jane Wilson goes to jail for murdering her boyfriend, and your girlfriend Helena gets to live a perfectly normal life as a whore." Elliot sucked his teeth and sipped his drink. "And if I don't play along?" Dwyer shrugged and ticked off points with his fingers. "Deputy Superintendent McKenna blows your brains out. Two weeks later, McKenna will be killed in a mugging gone wrong. Around that time Jane Wilson will be stabbed to death in prison, and Liam Kane's cousin Mink will pay a visit to Helena. You know about Mink Kane, right Shaw?" "What do you think?" Elliot said through gritted teeth. "I think you're getting the picture," Dwyer winked. "And I think you knowing that I can kill the people you care about will put you on your best behavior." "Distance," Teddy said reassuringly. "That'll help more than anything, Elliot. You know I own Summit Entertainment, right? Movies, television, radio. We do everything in the entertainment business, Elliot. The people I have out west are royally fucking things up. I need a reliable man out there helping out. I can put you on a flight out of Boston tonight and you'll be in LA for breakfast." "LA?" Elliot asked with a scowl. "Doing what?" "What you do best. Fixing problems. Los Angeles is the future," Teddy beamed. "Come out west with me. You'll fuck movie stars and cause all kinds of mischief. You'll love it." "Or stay here," Dwyer flashed a cold smile. "And face the alternative." Teddy started to hum a tune. Elliot recognized it right off. Hooray for Hollywood. ----- [b]Washington D.C.[/b] Russell Reed looked proudly at the latest addition to his office. The marble bust of Andrew Jackson gazed sternly out at the office. In the bust, Jackson was clothed in the toga of a Roman Senator and his hair was swept back over his head. It was a reproduction of an original carving made before Jackson became president. Russell smiled at it before the buzzer on his desk went off. "Yes, Patsy?" "Mr. Vice-President, Traci Lord is here to see you." Russell smiled and ran his hair through his fingers. "Send her in, please." Traci Lord came through the door with a broad grin on her face. She shook Russell's hand very firmly, something he admired in anyone regardless of their sex. "Traci, I was beginning to think you'd forgotten about me. We haven't spoken since the election." "No offense, Mr. Vice President, but Senate Majority Leader tends to generate more headlines than the Veep." "And you're all about the headlines," Russell said with a chuckle. "Please, have a seat. Have you seen my new decoration?" Lord's eyes lit up when she saw the bust. "Pretty. Andrew Jackson?" "Yes, ma'am. My favorite president. A man of the people, a man who knew how to use power, and a man I aspire to be." "Your role model if you ever get into the Oval Office?" Lord asked with a smirk. "When I get into the Oval Office," Russell laughed. "Not if. So, why'd you want to see me, Traci?" "Wanted some background on my last story on the Ethiopian Appropriations bill." The reporter pulled a notebook and pen from her purse and jotted a few things down before looking up at Russell. "The bill is flying through the Senate. It's supposed to pass by a clear majority this afternoon and President Norman will sign it before leaving town tomorrow night. That's... a lot faster than many people were predicting." Russell smiled. He tried to hide it, but his own anxiety of the swift passage matched Lord's. What bothered him even more was that he hadn't been involved in talks, so he had no idea what had gone on. "I guess our senate knows a winner and backs it, regardless of partisan lines." "I've heard another reason," she looked from her notepad and met Russell's eye. "President Norman cut a deal with Wilbur Helms. Passage of the bill for the administration taking a hands-off approach to civil rights." Russell fought the reaction, but he knew his mouth was twitching around the left corner. His wife Robin always said that was his worst tell when it came to hiding his anger. "You've acted as the president's liaison, of a sorts, with Capitol Hill and the Senate especially. I wanted to know if you could comment on the rumors I've heard." "No comment, Traci," he tried to say as cordially as possible. "Not even off the record or background. Whatever happened between the president and Senator Helms is... just between them. If that's all, I have an appointment." He thanked her for coming and said his goodbyes as politely as possible. The door shut behind her and he walked towards his desk, placing his hands on the wood and looking down at the polished surface and his own reflection. The man staring back at him as angry, his chubby face flushed and red. The face looking back at him was angry, but it as also impotent... powerless to effect change or even stop change. He had been by-passed by the president, cut out of working a deal with one of his oldest allies. He was mad at that fact, and even madder than he could never do anything to change it. "Goddammit," he said softly. "GODDAMMIT!" Russell swept his papers and phone off his desk. He "That son of a bitch!" In a rage, he reached out and grabbed the marble bust of Andrew Jackson. He slung the bust across the room and watched it shatter into pieces against the wall. Russell's secretary burst into the room a half second later. "Sir?" "Betsy," he hissed. "Hold all my calls. I'm going to the White House."