need.
He needed her. But she couldn't go back to work for him. She
couldn't.
Madam Director Allison was royally pissed. In her shoes, Michaels
might have felt the same way, but he wasn't in her shoes, he was in
his, and they were getting real damp from nervous sweat.
'And you felt you couldn't pass this along to me? I had to find it out
from some other agency?'
He sat in the chair in front of her desk and nodded.
'I
didn't see the need. Four federal marshals went to pick up one
desk-jockey scientist. I met the man. He could hardly stand up
without losing his balance. He had no history of violence, no record
of having purchased weapons.
I asked John to go along to keep us in the loop. It was a milk run.'
'Yes, a run that turned into the milkman taking a bullet in the pelvis
under the edge of his vest, and your meek scientist disappearing, not
even to mention the head of your military arm taking a round.' She
looked at the flat screen on her desk.
'According to the guards at this HAARP place, Morrison wasn't alone. He
was accompanied by a Dr. Dick Grayson. His identity turns out to be
bogus.'
Despite the situation, Michaels smiled.
'Something funny about that I'm missing. Commander?'
'Dick Grayson is the secret identity of Batman's sidekick, Robin.'
'Yes, well, 'Robin' is likely the man who plugged the marshal, along
with John Howard, on his way out of town.
The rest of the arrest team managed to gather themselves enough to pick
up the trail. Mormon and his gun-toting friend took a small cart
through the woods, cut a hole in the fence, and were presumably picked
up by accomplices.
The marshals found an armed dead man next to the hole in the fence,
shot in the heart. No ID on the man.
'There were signs that a car had left the road and plowed into the
fence fifty yards away. The marshals called in the state police, and a
few minutes ago a shot- up Ford Explorer was found at an old airstrip.
There were three bullet holes in the windshield, five more holes in the
back loading gate and bumper, and another dead man in the front seat.
No identification on him, either. Probably Howard's work.'
'Huh,' Michaels said.
'Oh, you can do better than that. Commander. You are supposed to be
playing with computers. You are supposed to be finding and busting
pirate ships in the Gulf peddling Viagra and steroids and diet pills
over the internet without prescriptions, or hunting down teenaged
hackers who post porno in church web pages. You went outside your
authority, and I don't know what it is you stepped into, but whatever
it is, it is on your shoes and it is your responsibility now. I want
to know just what the hell is going on--' His virgil, which he had
forgotten to turn off, bleated the opening notes from the old rock and
roll song, 'Bad to the Bone.'
