COLD&FU

EPISODE 15

2009-09-02T20:13:00.000-07:00

It takes a moment for Carlos’s incredible story to sink in.

Amy struggles to keep down her bile. “You mean to tell me that my life has been endangered, I’m being held hostage, and one of my dearest friends might be dead because my name happens to sound like someone in one of your ancient legends?!?!”

Carlos spreads his hands in apology, but his reply is cut off by the squeak of a door. Amy looks over his shoulder to see Zhenzhen.

“Please to come in. Breakfast is served.”

Carlos steps to one side. “He’ll be wanting to dine alone with you. I’ll talk to you, later.”

“Damn right you will.”

“Tread lightly with the General. He’s in a bad mood.”

“That makes two of us,” Amy replies, and pushes past Carlos to meet with the man who holds her future in his hands.

As Amy passes through the double doors leading to the dining room, Zhenzhen deftly slips behind and closes them. Before Amy turns, the click of the lock echoes in the large sparsely-furnished room.

A chair scrapes. At the end of a long table dotted with gleaming silver settings and covered dishes, General Fu stands alert. Amy forces a smile to mask her dismay and notices something about the man that failed to register during their first meeting. As expected, the man, thin and gaunt, stands with a stiff military bearing in a uniform that twinkles with ribbons and medals. The set of hard, tight eyes and a thin, humorless line of a mouth were also anticipated.

General Fu is short, Napoleon Complex short.

Much as she tries not to generalize, Amy knows there are few opponents in her line of work that are angrier, more bitter, or more at war with the entire world than an extremely short man.

“I am so glad you’ve decided to join me,” the General smiles. “I hadn’t realized you were so tall.”

“I hadn’t realized you were so short,” she replies and starts forward with an air of indifference.

Anger sweeps across his gaunt face. Like many short men, lack of height was a point of annoyance for the General.

Amy settles without invitation into the chair at the opposite end of the table. “I’m starved.” She lifts the silver cover off her plate to reveal a steaming plate of eggs, surrounded by hash browns dotted with green and red peppers and silvers of bacon. Reaching for a plate of toast flanked by bowls of butter, jelly and marmalade, Amy steals a glance towards the General and notes his stiffness.

Yes, General, you’re in charge, but I’m in control.

Within her feigned nonchalance, Amy realizes she is indeed hungry. The food is warm and tasty, and she allows herself to enjoy it, putting her uncertain future in the background.

—

Whether by watching from some secret hiding place, or silently summoned through some pre-arranged signal, Zhenzhen appears as Amy clears her plate and empties her glass of tea. Amy nods as Zhenzhen offers her more tea, then stands and wanders over to the massive fireplace dominating one side of the room. She studies the large portrait of General Fu, wondering if it might reveal another chink in the man’s armor.

The air stirs as General Fu moves to her side.

“My official PRC portrait.” With a bit of a wistful tone he adds, “It once hung in the Hall of Heroes.”

“How the mighty have fallen,” Amy notes. “Must have been an especially long drop for someone of your size.”

Through a tight jaw the General asks, “Why do you persist in insulting me?”

“Who are you trying to kid, General Fu? With a warm meal and phony pleasantries? You’re either planning to kill me, or imprison me here for the rest of my life. Either way, I’m not going to make it easy for you.”

“Death or imprisonment? Do you really think so little of me?”

“You’ve given me no reason to think otherwise.”

“There is another alternative. One that leads to your total freedom.” The edges of the General’s mouth ripple, which Amy supposes is the closest the man can come to smiling. He indicates for Amy to precede him back into the adjoining weapons room. Intrigued, she complies.

Among the array of displayed weapons, the Sun Goddess sword draws Amy toward it. At the same time she keeps note of the displayed weapons that can be most easily grabbed and used against General Fu. One of the many swords seem the best bet.

Perhaps sensing her train of thought, or out of natural caution, General Fu keeps several feet between them, even as he himself stops to admire the Sun Sword.

“Magnificent,” he murmurs. “I understand you’ve been told the legend of the Ah Mah Lin Say.”

“Who led you to understand that?” Amy asks.

“I have my spies,” the General replies cryptically. He goes on, “South American is very much like China. Fraught with myths and legends. And here, just as in China, they can be used to tear people apart. Or bring them together.”

Something Carlos had said pops into Amy’s mind. People will rarely be roused to fight for a cause. It is much easier to get them to fight for a legend. So the Brotherhood invented a legend. No, not invented. We have always had the story of Ah Mah Lin Say, the Sun Goddess. We more like, re-wrote it. Amy wonders which legend the General has been told.

“I am not a violent man by nature,” the General continues. “If a goal can be achieved without violence, I’d prefer it.”

“I’m sure a lot of the families of those you crushed with your tanks in Tiannamen Square would have preferred it.”

The General makes a casual gesture, tossing it off. “Violence can be an effective tool at times, and should never be wholly abandoned. It is usually the best way to handle betrayal,” he lectures. “Though, diplomacy and negotiation have their place, too.”

“Like now?”

“Please, sit,” the General requests, waving to a small couch several feet away. Amy settles on the couch, noting that the General does not follow, but rather moves to stand with the Sun Goddess sword in the background over his shoulder. She realizes: He’s planned this moment very carefully, choreographed it, in fact. It might do her well to listen closely.

“I have had long discussions with your friend Carlos. He would like to see his people reunited, brought back together to better protect themselves, to achieve prosperity. That is one reason the Brotherhood of the Blood Orchid was revived. One way to bring people together is through fear.”

“You mean fear of the consequences of screwing up and earning the wrath of those who’ve assumed control.”

“An acceptable method for the short term, but as time passes, fear of the retribution of the rulers lessens. It happened in the Soviet Union. It is happening in China. Authoritarianism has its uses; for a limited amount of time. Until something better comes along.”

“Such as …?”

“The consolidation of power can be a tricky matter, Miss Lindsay. Yes, fear can be a useful tool. If you have the manpower and the resources to justify that fear. If you don’t have the manpower and resources, alternative methods must be employed.”

“Again: Such as …?”

“Finding a viable Shepherd.”

Amy shakes her head, not following.

“The overwhelming majority of people in this world are sheep, Miss Lindsay. Easily led … waiting to be led, wanting to be led. Needing to be led. Most of them are looking for the slightest excuse to follow someone, to find a Shepherd to do their thinking for them. The trick to becoming a good Shepherd is getting the Sheep to believe you have their best interests at heart and will lead them down the path of safety and prosperity.”

“Fool all the people all the time.”

“Exactly!”

“And how do you propose to do that?”

“Oh, I’m not going to do it, Miss Lindsay. You are.”

The soft squeak of the double doors leading to the hallway offer a distraction giving Amy a moment to think on, and decipher General Fu’s curious assertion. The squeak heralds the arrival of Carlos.

“Ah, Carlos!” the General exclaims. “Perfectly timed. I was just about to explain your plan to Miss Lindsay.”

“His plan?” Amy tries reading Carlos, but his face remains impassive.

General Fu escorts Carlos to a spot near the couch … they are an odd sight, the big South American and the slight, tiny Chinaman. General Fu precedes to the Roman chariot and climbs aboard … like a professor taking the stage to deliver a lecture.

“Tell me, Miss Lindsay. Have you ever seen the film ‘The Man Who Would Be King’?”

“A couple of times. Based on a Kipling short story. It’s a ….” Amy stops, remembering that the movie is a particular favorite of Genius. For all I know, he could be dead now, she realizes. “A couple of times,” she repeats through a suddenly constricted throat.

“Two British soldiers decide they want to be kings of a country,” General Fu begins. “To the first tribal chief they come across they offer to train his army and conquer his enemies. In a battle one of the British soldiers is struck with an arrow, but is not wounded because it strikes his bandoleer. Because he does not bleed, the natives think he is a god. The two British soldiers go along with this because they realize conquering the country will be much, much easier if their army is led, not by a man, but by a god.”

Now Amy understands. “You want the Ah Mah Lin Say to lead your army. You can’t be serious?”

“Nothing so dramatic, Miss Lindsay. I’m a military man. I don’t ask civilians to fight if it can be helped. They tend to make a mess of things.”

“More fit to be crushed under the treads of tanks, right?”

“I don’t have any tanks here, Miss Lindsay. But I do have a god. Or, rather, a Goddess. Words will be more persuasive than tanks.”

“Or bullets,” adds Carlos.

“Wouldn’t be much good to reunite your people if you have to kill half of them to do it, would it?” asks Amy.

“No, it would not.”

“So, to save your people, you’ve become a traitor.”

“A pragmatist,” Carlos corrects. “Take a look at history. No lesser advanced civilization has ever survived an encounter with a more advanced one, even a friendly advanced civilization not bent on conquest. Change, Miss Amy, can either lift you, or crush you.”

Amy shakes her head. “Take a look at history yourself. Its full of failed attempts by the few trying to tell the many how to live.”

General Fu’s laugh is short and derisive. “You Americans must rid yourself of the notion that Freedom is the natural yearning of Man.”

“Isn’t it?”

“Sheep, Miss Lindsay. The world is full of sheep more willing to be led than to think for themselves. Your country would be better off understanding this basic fact. Save you a lot of trouble in the world. Freedom may be a good thing for Americans. It is too much a burden for most of the rest of the world.”

“Which needs to be run by a shepherd?”

“Exactly.”

“Like yourself?”

The General spreads his hands, and his mouth crinkles to hint a smile. “I’m willing to take on that burden.”

“With a little help from a ‘goddess’ who will put in a good word for you with the sheep?”

“It would save a lot of lives,” Carlos puts in.

“You mean save you two a lot of trouble.”

“I’ve never shied of doing things the hard way,” says the General. “In case you should demonstrate a bit of reluctance in assisting us.”

“It will be more than a ‘bit’ of reluctance.”

“I figured you would say that, Miss Lindsay.” General Fu jumps down from his perch on the chariot. “So I’ve arranged a bit of incentive.” With a child-like stride Amy would have found comical in other circumstances, Fu scurries over to the large fireplace. On one side he presses and pulls at something, causing a large section of rock to swing open and reveal a large monitor. He peels a remote from a clamp. “Let’s see. What room is it?”

From her seat on the couch Amy sees images flicker across the half obscured monitor too rapidly and too piecemeal to discern.

“You’ve no doubt noticed, Miss Lindsay, I do enjoy a certain level of comfort. I stole away from China with more than just the clothes on my back. I wasn’t about to have my dream of a jungle empire cut short by jungle fever or the bite of some obscure serpent or arachnid. I came, you might say, pharmacologically prepared.”

General Fu crooks a finger for Amy to join him at the monitor. Cautious, she approaches.

The security video quality of the scene on the monitor shows a room similar to the one where she awoke. The bed in the view, a static shot taken from a corner, Amy notes, is a large hospital bed. Beside the bed stands an ICU monitor and an IV stand. A woman sits reading in a chair next to the bed. A lump too indistinct to recognize lies on the bed.

General Fu fiddles with some controls. The camera zooms closer to the bed and focuses on the woman. “You do recognize the woman, Miss Lindsay?”

Amy squints. “Yes. It’s Zhenzhen, your … whatever she is.”

“I wanted you to make certain so you would know this was no bit of Hollywood trick photography.”

General Fu fiddles some more with the remote so that the face of the patient enlarges and grows clear.

Amy’s heart leaps into her throat.

“Genius!?”

TO BE CONTINUED

EPISODE 14

2009-09-02T20:12:00.003-07:00

The corridor leading into the jungle castle of the mysterious Chinese ex-general is much cooler and damper than Amy expects. It feels good.

Almost out of nowhere, a stone wall blocks their path. Chewie finds another stone ring and twists it. The wall swings silently toward them. The room beyond is a kitchen lit by a single yellow light glinting off the highly polished metal surfaces of world class furnishings.

Chewie waves Amy into the kitchen, then signals for her to wait while he hangs the torch inside the cave, then closes the secret door, which is camouflaged on the kitchen side by a large set of pots and pans dangling from hooks.

The click of a flipped switch and a sudden explosion of light prompts Amy to drop to a knee. She twists, looking for something to dive behind, sighting the large utility island in the middle of the kitchen.

“No need to hide, Miss Lindsay,” comes an unfamiliar voice… a voice a bit high pitched, and spoken with the precise words of someone well taught English as a second language. “We’ve been waiting for you.” Seeing Chewie has made no effort to hide; in fact seems nonplused, Amy stands slowly.

Across the kitchen, holding open a pair of swinging doors, waits a grim faced Carlos in his green uniform. And beside him: a small, gaunt Oriental man. Despite his lack of stature, he stands barely over five feet tall, and though he wears a thick, inoffensive silk lounging robe, he maintains a strong, commanding, military bearing. General Fu

“A bit early for my liking,” the man continues. ‘So forgive me if I delay the introductions for a more suitable hour.” He signals Chewie with a nod.

“Sorry, Miss Lindsay,” Chewie says.

As Amy turns to look at him she is unable to avoid his touch as he reaches for her arm. She feels the brief sting where he taps her upper arm. Amy jerks away. The shiny room begins swirling, and she feels herself falling. Darkness smothers her.

—

Awareness washes over Amy Lindsay in smooth, warm waves. Softness envelops her body from her chin downward. She arches languidly against the persistent pressure of, her body and mind inform her, a thick silk quilt. Her eyes flutter open. A dim light above and behind her is quickly swallowed by darkness.

Where…?

Awareness slams into her conscious mind, flooding it with memories. The Canadian border crossing. Bobby Chung’s gruesome death. The attempted kidnaping, then the successful one. Genius showing up the compound in Mexico. The flight to South America and betrayal by Carlos. The incredible underground village and Genius–-

Genius!

Amy’s body bolts upright in the bed. Her training (Assess Your Surroundings) kicks in just in time to remind her not to cry out. She settles back down and waits for her eyes to accustom themselves to the dim light.

Before her vision adjusts a soft knock drifts to her from across the room. A creaking door allows a splash of light to fall across the room… a room dominated by bare stone walls and floor, and a single window covered by a dark, thick curtain. Amy sits up, working her legs to reduce the binding effects of the heavy quilt in case escape offered an opportunity. Then the door closes, filling the room with an oppressive gloom.

The gentle hiss of soft footsteps whisper across the room toward Amy. She readies herself to throw aside the thick comforter, but the whispering footsteps drift away, and a whoosh of thick fabric being swept aside is followed by a surge of daylight. Amy’s first instinct is to protect her eyes, but the burst of light is gentle… sunrise, judging by the glow.

Amy wonders: Sunrise when? How long have I been out? Just a couple of hours? Or a whole day?

Revealed by the wash of light is a small oriental woman. A black kimono dominated by a serpentine green dragon fits neatly over a firm, narrow back. The woman turns, and seeing Amy awake, smiles. Amy estimates her age to be early twenties. In her arms, she holds a neatly folded green robe.

“To get cleaned up, please,” the woman says, her accent slight. With one hand she gestures toward a thin, silk print (dragon motif, of course) covering a narrow opening in the stone wall. “Breakfast almost ready.”

Amy pulls the thick comforter to her chin. “Where are my clothes?”

The woman holds up the robe. “To wear this now, please?” She points to a small changing screen, again dominated by a dragon design, angled in a corner. “Clothes behind there.”

Amy accepts the robe from the demure woman and rolls off the bed’s other side to keep it between them. As she slips into the robe, which seems just her size, she asks the woman, “Who are you?”

“I am Zhenzhen,” she replies with a slight bow. Smiling politely, she adds, “It means precious. People always ask.”

“My name is Amy. It means loved. Not that anyone ever asks.”

Zhenzhen’s lips curl a bit with a genuine smile. Then, she resumes her serious pose. “Breakfast in fifteen minutes. Please to clean up and dress.” After another bow, she turns and scurries from the room.

Amy waits until she hears the click of the door being locked. “Food and clean clothes,” she murmurs, “but I’m still a prisoner.”

Prompted by her training to, first, get your bearings, Amy makes her way to the window. It was clean, double-paned and immovable and overlooked the castle’s rear courtyard and jungle beyond from a height of about three stories. Onto Plan B. Go with the flow.

The side room contains a shower stall, small basin and an abundance of towels. Amy soaks one of the larger towels (noting the flash heating of the water… General Fu may like to secret himself in an ancient castle, but he required certain modern comforts) and invigorates herself with a quick, thorough rub down.

The sole article of clothing behind the changing screen is a powder blue silk cheongsam (the ubiquitous dragon design on the back) draped over a full length mirror. It slips on comfortably and Amy has to admit satisfaction with the way the high, closed collar, loose chest, tight waisted traditional Chinese dress compliments her form… especially the high slits accentuating her long legs. Though, she notes disapprovingly, how, despite the slits, the dress is tight and clingy enough to somewhat restrict her range of movement. She spies a pair of oriental sandals at the foot of the mirror. They appear nicely broken in and just her size.

As Amy shifts her weight from one foot to the other to slip on the sandals a short, insistent knock on the door startles her. She looks at the sandal in her hand and realizes it provided a wholly inadequate weapon.

Go with the flow, she decides, and resumes slipping it on while calling out, “Yes?”

Peering over the changing screen she watches the door crack open and Carlos peek around the edge of the thick, wooden door.

“Are you decent?”

“Would it matter?” she replies, stepping out from behind the screen. She begins ticking off in her mind the many ways to kill a man with her bare hands.

Carlos freezes a moment at the sight of her, then smiles and edges completely into the room and eases the door shut behind him. “You look incredible, Goddess.”

“Think you boss will approve?”

A flicker of uncertainty… and something Amy can’t quite place… rushes across Carlos’ face. “You are a blonde. He will approve.”

“There’s a ringing endorsement.”

“What I mean-– .”

“Never mind,” Amy replies, snapping a bit so as not to give Carlos the impression she was anything less than disgusted with him. “Are you here to escort me to breakfast. Shouldn’t keep your master waiting.”

Carlos stiffens as if slapped, then, tight-lipped, opens the door and abruptly waves for Amy to precede him.

The corridor is as Amy imagines: stone on all sides, a bit narrow, and slightly chilly. As another concession to modern conveniences, the jutting torches spaced out along the walls to Amy’s right are made of plastic and tipped with incandescent bulbs shaped like flames. On the left the corridor stopped abruptly at a large steel door.

Carlos produces a large key and unlocks the door. A brief landing beyond gives way to a gently spiraling stone stairway. Carlos waves toward the stairway.

Within the first couple of steps he says softly, “You’ve put me in a very difficult position, Goddess.”

“I’ve put you in one?”

“I’d had a different plan for getting you and Genius into the castle.”

“You mean for kidnaping us?”

Carlos gently touches her arm, signaling to stop their descent. “I had planned to explain things when we reached the village.”

“That would have been a hell of a story,” Amy says with derision. “Which village? The fake one the ‘dragon’ attacks? Or the one underground?”

“It would have been a hell of a story, yes. And a long one. One more believable after I’d earned your trust. Now, I have to give you the short version, and pray you believe me.”

“That’ll take some heavy praying.”

“I realize that. You see, I am what you call…” Carlos looks up and down the stairway, then back to Amy. “… a double agent.”

“I know. We saw the Brotherhood of the Blood Orchid tattoo.”

“I realized that when you abandoned me in the jungle. Yes, I am a member of the Brotherhood. But it is not what you think. If I know Genius, he searched my jeep, right?”

“Right.”

“He found a nine millimeter pistol? Biometric lock?”

“Yes. Standard C.I.A. issue. He wondered what agent you killed to get it.”

“My killing the man it was issued to would have been an act of suicide.” Carlos spreads his hands and tilts his head, as if to ask… Understand what I’m saying?

Amy studies the big man’s imploring expression. Carlos? A C.I.A. agent? Or, just another ploy to gain her trust? “I’m supposed to take your word for this?”

“The reasons to distrust me only seem justified,” he laments, seemingly with genuine emotion, “If only you and Genius hadn’t been so rash, so quick to mistrust.”

“Or you had been quicker to take us into your confidence.”

After a moment, Carlos sighs and concedes her point with a nod. “We should be going. The General can be very paranoid, at times, and he will wonder what is keeping us.” He motions for them to resume down the stairway. “Just do me the favor of not doing anything rash until we’ve had another chance to talk.”

“Of course,” Amy promises, fully intending to ignore that promise the first time opportunity provided her a chance of escape.

—

The stairway ended at another locked, steel door… unlocked by Carlos with the same key, Amy noted. He led her through a couple of turns of the repetitive, featureless corridor, then, a massive wooden double door (unlocked) into a large exhibit room dominated with a large fireplace, and filled with ancient feudal weapons: maces, lances, crossbows, shields and things Amy did not recognize. Taking up most space is a ancient Roman chariot.

Amy’s eye is drawn to a wall dedicated to swords of various types and sizes. She moves for a closer look. Prominent in the middle of the wall display, lit to am almost a golden glow by small, strategically spotlights, hung the glass, dragon slaying sword of Ah Mah Lin Say, the Sun Goddess.

Carlos moves beside her to study the sword. “Chewie told me you were told the legend of the Ah Mah Lin Say.”

“An incredible story.”

“Yes, it is. So is the real story.”

“What do you mean, the real story?”

Carlos takes a deep breath, then lets it out slowly. “What you saw on the scrolls was a fiction. Our ancestors didn’t record legends on scrolls. What you saw was something the elders of my tribe and I came up with several years ago, as a way to protect our people.”

“I don’t understand.”

“The Brotherhood, the new Brotherhood, some time ago realized two things. There will always be invaders, interlopers come to conquer us. We also realized the power of the myth. People will rarely be roused to fight for a cause. It is much easier to get them to fight for a legend. So the Brotherhood invented a legend. No, not invented. We have always had the story of Ah Mah Lin Say, the Sun Goddess. We more like, re-wrote it.”

“Starring me. Why?”

“The resemblance in names.”

It takes a moment to sink in, and when it does, Amy struggles to keep her anger in check. “You mean my life has been endangered, several times, I’m being held hostage, and one of my dearest friends is close to death, if not dead already, all because my name happens to sound like someone in one of your ancient legends?”

Carlos spreads his hands apologetically, and his reply is cut off by the squeak of a door. Amy looks over his shoulder to the far side of the display room and sees Zhenzhen.

“Please to come in. Breakfast is served.”

Carlos steps to one side. “He’ll be wanting to dine alone with you. I’ll talk to you later.”

“Damn right you will,” Amy tells him through a grit smile.

“Tread lightly with the General. He’s in a bad mood this morning.”

“That makes two of us,” Amy replies and pushes past Carlos to meet with the man who, through the most improbable of circumstances, holds her future in his hands.

TO BE CONTINUED

EPISODE 13

2009-09-02T20:12:00.001-07:00

From his spot on the mats of the death hut, Genius nods towards the doorway and barks, “Out there! Is anyone by the door? Come on, Goddess! Get with it! We don’t have much time.”

Startled by his sharp tone, Amy snaps from her lethargy. She steps to the narrow doorway to look out. Knots of somber murmuring people in groups of four or five gather, several yards away, as if afraid to come too close to the hut.

“Any one close enough to hear us?” Genius asks.

“Well, no.” Amy turns. “But, it’s not like they could understand what we say.”

“No,” Genius agrees. He yanks the arm of the Kidnap Leader. “But, I don’t think our friend, here, wants it known around the village that he understands and probably speaks English.” Genius yanks his arm, again. “Right, buddy.”

The native pulls his arm from Genius’ grasp and rubs his wrist. His wide face pinches for a contemplative moment, then, he sighs and nods.

“Okay. You got me. Yeah, I understand, and speak, English.” He pats the tattoo on his back shoulder. “I’m the leader here of what you would call the local branch of the Brotherhood of the Blood Orchid,” he tells them in precise, unaccented English. Turning to Amy, he tells her, “I was the one who gave the order to get you.”

Amy shifts to put Genius between her and the native. “Why did you want me killed?”

“Ah, mere semantics. My Spanish isn’t as good as my English. We wanted you kidnaped and brought here. The order was meant to ‘get’ you, not ‘kill’ you. “

“Brought here? What for?”

His reply is interrupted by Genius murmuring, “Oh, Sweet Jesus,” as he flops back and splays out on the pile of mats.

“What is it?” Helplessness overcomes her, as she wonders what to do.

Immediately, Genius props himself back up with his arms behind him and looks at the native. “Carlos is your… uncle?”

“He is married to my mother’s sister.”

“And, his job, all along, was to actually get us here safely?”

“Yes.”

“And, I screwed that up?” Genius asks. The native forces a grin and shrugs. Genius continues, “He could have told me at the beginning.”

“Would you have come? Would you have let her come?”

“Probably not.”

Amy spreads her hands. “Will there be some point in this conversation where I’ll begin understanding what you two are talking about?”

The men look at one another, and finally, Genius nods for the man to explain.

“I’m not sure where to start.”

“Start with your name,” Genius suggests.

“I’m not sure you could pronounce my name. Call me Chewie. It was the nickname the Americans gave me, when I was a young boy. They got me hooked on Juicy Fruit, when I worked as a guide and messenger boy for the people who built roads and bridges around here.”

Genius extends his hand. “Hello, Chewie. Your Uncle Carlos knows me as Guillermo, I guess you can call me that, too. This is Amy Lindsay.”

Chewie gives Genius a perfunctory handshake as he stares reverentially at Amy. “The Ah Mah Lin Say.”

“Let’s start with that,” Genius suggests. “When did you discover an American actress was the patron saint or whatever for your village?”

“About two years ago, I was visiting my Uncle Carlos. He showed me a movie, SECRETS OF A CHAMBERMAID.” He turns to Amy. “You wore glasses in the beginning, so I didn’t see it at first. It was quite a shock to recognize you.”

“How did you ‘recognize’ her?”

“At the time, I was the apprentice to our medicine man. I had seen the sacred scrolls, including the legend of the Am Mah Lin Say. I told my Uncle Carlos about the incredible resemblance. I didn’t know he was already planning to bring me into the Brotherhood of the Blood Orchid, the Reformed Branch of the Brotherhood of the Blood Orchid. You see, that was about the time the Chinaman appeared in the jungle. With his dragon.”

Amy asks, “You do know the dragon is a helicopter?”

“I do. But, you must realize, very few of my people have traveled more then a mile or two away from our villages, including the Chief and the Medicine Man. Here, they are the authority. If they say it is a dragon, the people accept that it is a dragon.”

“Which can only be banished by the Ah Mah Lin Say,” muses Genius.

“We have tried to mobilize the people to fight the Chinaman. His followers are few, and we are many, but they have guns. And, he occupies the sacred castle, and to some of my people, including my Chief, that gives him special power and authority.”

“That can only be overcome by the Ah Mah Lin Say,” Amy spreads her hand. “You know I’m not a goddess.”

“Bite your tongue,” Genius interjects.

Chewie smiles. “And, you know there really isn’t a dragon. Even if there were, our plan doesn’t require you to slay it.”

“What does ‘your’ plan require?”

“There really is a holy glass sword. It was supposed to be well hidden in the castle, but the Chinaman found it. Our people have seen it on display. We; my Uncle Carlos, and other members of the Brotherhood, feel that all we need to get our people to come together and defeat the Chinaman is for the Ah Mah Lin Say to retrieve the sacred sword. All the villages will rally around you, and you can lead us into battle to defeat the Chinaman.”

“So, you want me to steal the sword and play Joan of Ark?”

Genius notes, “A role I’d say you were a bit old –.”

“Bite YOUR tongue,” Amy warns.

Genius asks, “Could you answer this question: Why should we believe you? And, why is your Uncle Carlos flying around in General Fu’s fake dragon and burning down villages?”

“That’s two questions,” Chewie points out with a grin. When he sees their seriousness, the grin vanishes. “Uncle Carlos is… how do you say? Undercover. Tales were told of how he… worked on the edges of the law? The Chinaman is ‘blackmailing’ him.”

“A bit hard to prove.”

“No it isn’t,” Amy realizes. “If he were really working for General Fu, why hasn’t he burned down THIS village?”

“He knows about this place?” Genius asks.

“He helped build it many years ago.”

Genius laces his fingers behind his head and stretches out on the mats. Reflection covers his face. Finally, he tells Chewie, “Can you wait outside for a minute.”

“Of course.” His eyes dart towards Genius’ wound. “I’ll go get something to put on that.”

Amy’s forgotten the snake bite. She glances down, and a lump clogs her throat. In the short time they had spoken with Chewie, the small puncture grew to the size of a golf ball and turned a pink, grayish hue. The scratch had a similar color, but was not as large.

Chewie flashes Amy a worried look before ducking out the hut doorway.

“How did you know he spoke English?”

“He laughed, back at the pit, when I made an ‘other white meat’ joke.”

“That was a joke?” Amy’s forced smile fades, as she kneels beside Genius and nods towards his wound. “Bad.”

“Very bad. I’m going to have to go away for a while.”

“Go away?”

“Shut myself down. Induce a coma.”

“Can you do that?”

“I have before. Once. It may be my only chance. I took a small dose of venom; good thing I caught only a glancing blow, and it got mostly bone. But, it’s going to spread through my bloodstream, and if I can slow it down, while it loses its strength, the potency might thin out enough not to paralyze my heart and lungs.” He takes hold of Amy’s hand. “I’m afraid that’s going to leave you on your own. I’m not going to be able to slay the dragon and save the damsel. She’s going to have to save herself.”

“I’m not entirely helpless.”

“No, you’re not.” He unconsciously rubs the scar she’d put on the back of his left hand once during fencing practice. He closes his eyes and takes a long deep breath. “Get the sword and get out of there. Don’t take any unnecessary chances.” He opens his eyes. “And, remember, don’t take any crap from them. You’re a goddess, damn it.”

“And, you’re a genius, damn it. You find a way not to die on me.”

“I’ll be here,” he assures her. “I don’t know how good I’ll smell.”

Amy chuckles, despite the lump in her throat. “Quoting AIRPLANE. Always with a joke.”

Genius closes his eyes. He takes another long breath and settles deeper into the mats. “Amy?”

“Yes?”

“Thank you.”

“For what?”

“Letting me love you, pure and chaste, from afar.”

What response is there to that? “Just keeping you in line until Mrs. Genius…”

“Whoever she might be,” they say together.

“… comes along,” Amy finishes.

Genius’ chest rises and falls. And, after several frantic motionless seconds, rises and falls, again.

A soft rap on the door frame heralds Chewie’s return. He cradles a gourd with some gooey, grey concoction that makes Amy’s eyes water even more. She starts to speak to him, then, sees a teenage girl trailing in behind Chewie. Her inquisitive eyes linger on Amy for a moment, then, she kneels at Genius’ side. Chewie speaks to her in low earnest tones and demonstrates how to apply the mixture to the wounds.

Chewie finishes the instructions and stands and takes Amy’s arm to lead her outside the hut. The lights have dimmed, giving the underground village a sense of dusk. Chewie looks around to make certain they are alone.

“The Chief insists we take you to the castle tonight.”

“We?”

“We have a group going out in a few minutes.”

“A group? For what?”

“The ‘kidnapped’ villagers my Uncle Carlos told you about? The Chinaman is forcing them to work in his fields. Our own people are overseers, so, we ‘rotate’ the workers. The Chinaman and his people are too few to guard them all the time so they don’t notice the different faces. By doing this, our warriors learn the layout around the castle. Every two weeks, we do the change. Tonight is such a night.”

Amy glances back at the death hut.

“Your friend will be given the best care possible, I assure you.”

“He’d better,” Amy warns. “Or, the Ah Mah Lin Say will be very, very angry.” Amy gives the hut one last, lingering look, then, tells Chewie, “Okay. Let’s go get your damned sword.”

—

“I’ll be damned,” an awed Amy Lindsay whispers.

Thanks to Chewie’s night goggles, she spies the medieval castle springing out of the middle of the jungle. An orchid field a couple of acres wide and sits within a large stone wall, forming an outer courtyard. It ends where another wall rises up to enclose a second, hidden inner courtyard. Amy’s gaze lingers on the back of the castle and its imposing stone wall and high rounded turrets.

“To the right,” Chewie whispers. “Near the corner of the outer wall, there is an escape tunnel.” He turns from where they crouch among the foliage on the ridge and emits a series of whistles. There is a brief rustle, as the two dozen men and women who accompanied them on the six hour trek move off.

Whispering, Chewie tells her that the replacements will work their way around to the south side of the castle, the servants’ quarters. The jungle grows to the edge of the castle on the north and west sides, but is ‘guarded’ by General Fu’s menagerie of dangerous animals. The rear of the castle is a different story. “The Chinaman thinks the Brotherhood is his ally. Uncle Carlos is in charge of castle security. We know exactly where to go, and when.” He lifts the goggles from Amy’s face. “Stay close.”

Within ten minutes, Chewie halts them at the foot of the twelve-foot grassy incline that leads to the fifteen-foot outer stone wall. Signaling Amy to wait, he scrambles up the slope to the corner of the castle’s wall. After aligning himself, Chewie paces off long, measured steps. After a dozen steps, he stops and turns. Dropping to all fours, he skitters down the slope. Three quarters of the way down, he stops and begins feeling around in the grass.

Realizing he is searching for a door or secret latch, Amy scurries to his side. Chewie whispers, “Here.” He pulls something, and several feet up and to the left of them, a soft grinding sound accompanies the upswing of a four-by-four section of the grassy incline. Dim, flickering light, as if from a flame source far down a corridor, crawls down the slope.

“Quickly,” Chewie urges. “It shouldn’t be visible from the castle, but we can’t take the chance.”

Amy scrambles down the slope to the opening. A short set of steps lead downward to a long stone corridor. About sixty feet down the corridor, a single torch clings to a wall. Beyond, complete darkness. She hesitates.

Chewie joins her. “Don’t worry. Uncle Carlos left the torch for us.”

Chewie squeezes through the opening. Amy follows. Chewie waits for her to move past, then, twists an iron ring on the wall. The hatch slowly drops.

The corridor is cooler and dryer than Amy expected. Chewie sets a quick pace, and soon, they are at the torch. Chewie plucks it from the wall, and they continue into the darkness.

Almost out of nowhere, a stone wall blocks their path. Chewie finds another stone ring and twists it. The wall swings towards them. The room is a kitchen, lit by a single yellow light glinting off the highly polished metal surfaces of world-class furnishings.

Chewie waves Amy inside, then, signals for her to wait, while he hangs the torch inside the cave and closes the secret door, which is camouflaged on the kitchen side by a large set of pots and pans that dangle from hooks.

The click of a flipped switch and a sudden explosion of light prompt Amy to drop to one knee. She twists, looking for something to dive behind and choosing the large utility island in the middle of the kitchen.

“No need to hide, Miss Lindsay,” says an unfamiliar voice… a voice a bit high pitched. “We’ve been waiting for you.” Seeing Chewie has made no effort to hide; in fact seems nonplused, Amy stands slowly.

Across the kitchen, holding open a pair of swinging doors, waits a grim-faced Carlos in his green uniform. And, beside him: a small, gaunt Oriental man. Despite his lack of stature, he stands barely five feet tall, and though he wears a thick, inoffensive silk lounging robe, he maintains a strong, commanding military bearing. General Fu.

“A bit early for my liking,” continues the voice. ‘So, forgive me, if I delay the introductions for a more suitable hour.” Fu signals Chewie with a nod.

“Sorry, Miss Lindsay,” Chewie says.

Amy turns to look at him and is unable to avoid his touch, as he reaches for her arm. She feels a brief sting and jerks away. The shiny room begins to swirl out of control, and she feels herself falling, until darkness smothers her.

TO BE CONTINUED

EPISODE 12

2009-09-02T20:11:00.001-07:00

The Chief of the vast underground village stands at the edge of the “Valley of the Snakes.” Slyly, his hands signal for quiet, as he speaks.

Genius quietly translates. “Paraphrasing, he’s reminding everyone of what a great and benevolent Chief he has been, yada, yada, yada.” With an occasional snide, editorial comment thrown in, Genius passes along the gist of the Chief’s dry and insipid speech.

The Ah Mah Lin Say has come to rid the world of the dragon and has brought along a champion to retrieve the glass sword that was stolen from the village. But, because those of “pale skin” have betrayed them so often, Ah Mah Lin Say’s champion must prove himself a true and honorable champion by walking through the Valley of the Snakes.

From across the way, the Chief signals for Genius to move to the edge of the pit.

Genius spreads his hands. “Well, Goddess? Anything?”

“Nothing, I’m afraid.”

“Then, into the Valley of the Shadow of Death I go.”

Genius starts to turn, then, stops and genuflects. “Looks like you’re blessing me or something.”

Amy rests a hand on his bowed head. “Be careful.”

“You can count on that.” Genius looks up and sees the worry creasing her face. “Buck up, Goddess. I’m sacred enough for both of us.”

“Don’t you do anything stupid in there.”

“Who, me?” he replies with a grin. His expression grows serious. “You’re a goddess. Don’t take crap from anyone.” With that, he turns and starts for the end of the pit, where a pair of the snake-tattooed natives stand at the end of the ladder.

Amy peeks over the ledge. Her breath catches in her chest. The first thing leaping into her mind is the line from Raiders of the Lost Ark. “Why does the floor move?”

The pit’s depth looks to be about fifteen feet, but that’s hard to verify through the crawling, squirming, slithering multi-colored mass undulating along the entire floor of the rectangular pit. Green and it’s various shades seem the dominant color, but just about every hue of the rainbow writhes. Her knowledge of herpetology is extremely limited. The movement inside the pit seems measured and calm to her; no frantic movement or fighting.

Genius had carefully avoided looking into the pit on his journey around. Now, he stops and bends to look into it. His eyes dart around and his expression is studious.

Amy takes some solace that he didn’t immediately faint dead away. She remembers something he said. Extraordinary women make ordinary men do extraordinary things.

Genius swings around onto the ladder and begins his descent. With his head still above the edge, he flashes a smile and scans the crowd. His eyes linger on Amy for a moment, giving her a cocky wink. He looks down into the pit.

“Here I come, Boys. USDA Grade-A Prime. The other white meat.” He looks up and grins for the crowd. Suddenly, his eyes narrow. He glances at Amy. There is something almost urgent about his expression.

Amy furrows her brow.

With a hint of frustration, Genius focuses his gaze on the Chief and his entourage. He looks back at Amy and starts to speak, but stops, takes a deep breath, and resumes his descent.

Amy chances a glance across the pit to the Chief and his minions. Nothing strikes her as unusual. What did Genius see? The Chief stands, haughty and aloof. His Chief of Staff maintains his usual sour expression. The leader from their bridge escort seems pensive. Why doesn’t Genius just tell her what he saw?

With several deep breaths, Genius readies himself, makes his face an emotionless mask, and continues down the ladder. A couple of feet from where it disappears into a tangle of snakes, Genius pauses to turn around on the rungs to face the pit’s inhabitants. His eyes scan the pit…

Across the pit, the Chief of Staff punctuates a bit of muttering with a grunting laugh. A few around him chuckle. Genius looks up and makes an abrupt reply. From the speed by which the grin disappears from the Chief of Staff’s face, Amy suspects the translation of Genius’ remark was probably of the ‘Bite me!’ variety.

After a moment’s searching, Genius picks out a landing spot. He edges further down the ladder. One foot reaches out, and with gentle firmness Genius wedges it between the thigh thick bodies of a large pair of motionless snakes, one green, one gray. Carefully, he duplicates the cautious move with the other foot.

As soon as his hand leaves the ladder, a pair of the natives haul it up and hustle around the pit to deploy it at the far end. Amy watches Genius take several deep, calming breaths as his swiveling eyes take in the writhing floor of the pit. She follows his eyes, trying to figure out just what he is looking for, wondering how she might be able to help him.

Within a minute his plan became clear to Amy. Sliding his feet, lifting them only when necessary, Genius began a slow, measured, shuffling trek across the pit, staying as close as possible to the larger snakes. Carefully, cautiously, wiggling and wedging his feet among the reptiles, arms extending occasionally to keep balance, as if he were walking a tightrope, Genius moves with calm persistence across the pit using the larger snakes, often given space from the smaller ones, as kind of stepping stone guides.

Three quarters way through the pit he stops. Following his squinting eyes, Amy sees a seven to eight foot snake of dull green, thick as her arm, slithering across the wide back of an anaconda sprawled out a couple of feet in front of Genius, cutting across his path. The arrow shaped head of the green snake elevates. Its dark, forked tongue flicks at the air. That it makes Genius pause causes a jump in Amy’s heartbeat.

Genius gazes left, then right. He looks beyond the snakes blocking his way at the ladder, a tantalizing five to six feet away.

As if sensing the moment of distraction, the snake lunges at Genius. A collective gasp rasps out from the crowd. Amy starts to cry out a warning.

Genius’ hand is a blur, and almost faster than Amy’s eyes can register, Genius, having anticipated the strike, is gripping the snake, just below the head. The gasp of the onlookers turns into a babbling ‘ah!’ of disbelief… Genius, a wry grin creasing his face, displays the snake for everyone to see.

Despite the thudding of her heart in her chest, Amy is unable to resist looking across the pit at the Chief’s entourage. Among the sea of faces displaying shock, the expression of the Chief of Staff stands out with sour dismay.

Casually, but forcefully, Genius tosses the green snake far across the pit. Its landing is greeted by hissing and bared fangs. In an instant, slithering, coiling living ropes entwine and bury it.

Refocusing on the task at hand, Genius sucks in a deep breath, then, releases it, and studies the ground between himself and the ladder. His furrowed brow hints at the gauging of distances, angles. Thinking of jumping to the ladder, Amy realizes. With another sigh and a brief shake of his head, Genius decides against that strategy. Carefully, he lifts a foot and eases it across the wide back of the anaconda blocking his way.

As his foot descends downward Genius freezes, foot hovering. A flash of brown and green erupts from the other side of the anaconda. Genius has just enough time to start to pull back, but not fully out of range. The gaping mouth of the snake misses his foot, but hits and attaches itself to his shin. Genius lifts the leg and snatches the snake from where it dangles by one fang just above his ankle. Gripping it just behind the head, Genius lifts the snake to study it. Its tail immediately tries to coil around his arm.

Simultaneous with a expletive from Genius, the on looking natives let out a collective gasping moan. That mournful sound, and the curse from Genius, tells her all she needs to know about the four foot brown and green snake dangling from his fist. Poisonous. Perhaps, deadly poisonous.

With another curse, Genius hurls the snake away.

Genius gives his shin a cursory glance. Quickly, with less caution, he steps over the anaconda. Then, he leaps to the ladder. It lets out a protesting crack against his sudden weight as he lands on the second rung, but it holds.

Amy hurries around the pit and reaches the ladder just as Genius clears it and throws himself on the ground in a sitting position to examine his wound.

Amy kneels at his side. A small puncture wound oozes a drop of blood above his ankle. Beside it is a red scratch from where the other fang scraped but did not penetrate. “It doesn’t look too bad,” she notes.

“No,” Genius agrees. “It’ll take a while longer to kill me than normal.”

The crowd pressing over them parts on one side to allow the Chief and his entourage access. Amy notes that even the dour Chief of Staff shows a bit of concern in his expression. The Librarian was apparently also the Medicine Man, as he edged between Amy and Genius to kneel down and peer expertly at the wound.

The Librarian/Medicine Man looks up at the Chief and shrugs. The Chief asks a question, which elicits another shrug.

“A lot of help you are,” Genius tells him.

The Chief signals to two natives and barks out an order.

Genius raises a hand. “No, just him.” He points to the man who led their capture at the bridge and makes a short remark in their language.

The man hesitates, his expression showing… fear? But, then, the Chief insistently beckons him forward. The man complies, bending down to slip an arm around Genius and help him stand. They swing around and start moving, Genius putting as little weight on his injured leg as possible.

Amy hurries around to confront them and ask, “Where is he taking you?”

“To what they call a ‘death’ hut.” Before Amy can ask, he adds, “Yeah. It’s just what it sounds like. A place for me to die.”

—

A stupor descends over Amy as she follows Genius and his helper through the silent, subdued crowd that parts reverently. She is afraid to ask Genius if he is kidding because a large part of her believes, this time, he isn’t.

The ‘death’ hut is one of three identical grass structures, about the size of garden sheds, set off a little ways from the rest of the village. It consists of a single room covered by dozens of multi colored woven mats. Fresh, fragrant herbs dangle along the walls, filling the small room with a rich, heavy sickly sweet scent … to cover the stench of previous deaths, Amy realizes.

After helping Genius to a sitting position on the mats, the Kidnap leader turns to leave. Genius grabs his arm. To Amy, he says, “Is there anyone hanging around out there?”

“What?”

Genius nods toward the doorway. “Out there. Is anyone by the door? Come on, Goddess! Get with it! We don’t have much time.”

Startled by his sharp tone, Amy is snapped from her lethargy. She steps to the narrow doorway to look out. Knots of somber, murmuring people, in groups of four or five, gather several yards away, as if afraid to come too close to the hut.

“Anyone close enough to hear us?” Genius asks.

“Well, no.” Amy turns. “But its not like they could understand what we say.”

“No,” Genius agrees. He reaches up and yanks the arm of the Kidnap Leader. “But, I don’t think our friend her wants it known around the village that he understands, and probably speaks English.” Genius yanks his arm again. “Right, buddy.”

The native pulls his arm from Genius’ grasp and rubs his wrist. His wide face pinches for a contemplative moment, then he sighs and nods.

“Okay. You got me. Yeah, I understand, and speak, English.” He pats his shoulder, indicating the tattoo on his back shoulder. “I’m the leader here of what you would call the local branch of the Brotherhood of the Blood Orchid,” he tells them in precise, unaccented English. Turning to Amy, he tells her, “I was the one who gave the order to get you.”

TO BE CONTINUED

EPISODE 11

2009-09-02T20:10:00.002-07:00

The King speaks and gestures, and the men turn around and begin to unroll the long, thick scroll for the benefit of Amy Lindsay and Genius.

The Librarian speaks in the low monotone of a seasoned storyteller.

Genius translates: “This is the story of Ah Mah Lin Say, the Sun Goddess.”

The men with the scroll stop to reveal only the first foot or so.

Amy sees the revealed image, a faded but clearly distinguishable painted face.

Her face.

Genius looks back at Amy, and in an awed, hushed tone, says, “My God, Goddess. You ARE a Goddess.”

The two guards continue to unroll the long scroll and hesitate at each panel, as the Librarian recites the story in hushed tones.

“No need,” Amy says, as Genius resumes translating. She deciphers the tale from the scroll as it unravels. A humongous serpent is devouring the countryside: the jungle, villages and villagers. Then, the Sun sends down a goddess of golden hair. The village presents her with an invisible sword. She slices the winged serpent in half, and the villagers feast on the remains. The Sun calls back the Golden Goddess, amidst the weeping and consternation of the people. “That about cover it?” she asks Genius.

“One correction, Goddess. Not an invisible sword, but one made of glass.”

“Either way, they’re expecting me to go slay their dragon, right?”

“I guess so.”

The dour-faced Chief of Staff circles around to stand between them and the scroll. He speaks with a defiant tone, pointing from them to the scroll and back at Genius.

Amy murmurs, “I don’t like the sound of that.”

“Me, neither. He’s pointing out that, while you might bear some resemblance …”

“Some?”

“… to the Golden Goddess, there is nothing in the sacred scroll about the Golden Goddess being accompanied by an ill-mannered troll.”

“You’re not ill-mannered.”

“Thanks.”

The Chief of Staff returns to the King’s side. He gives Genius a smugly defiant sneer. The King crooks a finger to summon the Librarian. They speak in tones too low to hear. At one point, the King waves inquiringly at the other scrolls. The Librarian shrugs. The King signals for the Librarian to step away, then, asks them a question.

Genius translates, “He wants to know what purpose I serve.”

“Besides comic relief?”

“Not funny.”

“Sometimes.” Amy thinks for a moment. “Tell them you are my chosen champion.”

“Good one.” Genius turns and translates.

The King remains uncertain, the Chief of Staff scornful, and the other native watchful. The Chief of Staff asks a question that drips with contempt.

“He wants to know what tests of bravery I passed,” Genius tells Amy. “And, if he refers to me as the male offspring of a female dog, again, I’m going to kick his–- .”

“Tell them you have proven your bravery to me, time and again, and I’ll thank them not to question my judgement.”

“Right,” Genius agrees with a smile, then, turns and delivers her message in a stern, almost threatening tone.

The Chief of Staff, still smug, speaks to the King, but keeps his eyes on Genius, challenging him.

Genius turns to Amy and speaks in a low tone. “If I’m so brave, why did we hide and not attack the dragon at the village?”

“Why didn’t we?”

“I’m open to suggestions.”

“You’re supposed to be the creative one. Come up –- .” Glancing at the scroll triggers inspiration. “Because I didn’t have the sword.”

“Brilliant, Goddess.” Genius turns and asks for the sword in English, then, translates the request into their language.

The King, Chief of Staff, kidnap Leader, and even the Librarian, all look down or away, adopting identical expressions of men faced with a subject they would prefer to ignore.

“That is, for lack of a better word, a strange reaction.”

Genius snaps his fingers in realization: “They’ve lost the sword!” Genius asks a question in their language.

The King reluctantly nods.

The leader from their bridge capture leans towards the King and asks a question.

Genius rolls his eyes. “Oh, Dude, don’t help me.”

“What did he say?”

“He’s wondering if, perhaps, the reason I’m here is to retrieve the sword. That’s why the Golden Goddess brought a champion with her.”

The notion sours the Chief of Staff. Something crosses his mind and he speaks to the King. They converse for several seconds.

“From the frying pan into the fire,” Genius remarks.

“What?”

“Our sour friend there is wondering if I’m not really in the employ of the dragon. Perhaps, I have some kind of spell over you, and what I’ll do if they send me for the sword is actually lead the dragon back here to kill them all.”

Amy notes, “And, the King looks like he’s buying the possibility.”

The King summons the Librarian back, and the four conduct a brief discussion too low for Genius to hear and translate for Amy.

After a minute, the King gestures that the talking is over, and everyone returns to their spots. The King clears his throat and makes an authoritative pronouncement.

Genius whispers an obscenity Amy would have sworn he would never utter in her presence.

“What is it?”

“Well, I’m hoping it’s a metaphor, but loosely translated, I must ‘Walk the Valley of the Snakes’ to prove I’m not one of the dragon’s minions. Immediately.”

—

The King signals for two of the guards to remove Genius. When Amy objects to their being separated, the King relents. The guards lead them to a nearby hut much smaller then the rest. One guard disappears for a moment, then, returns with a loin cloth and pantomimes for Genius to undress and put it on. They bow deferentially to Amy and back out of the hut, and block the doorway.

Genius sniffs the loincloth. “At least, it’s clean.”

“Does ‘Walking the Valley of the Snakes’ mean what I think it means?”

“Probably, Goddess. These strike me as a very literal bunch of people. They’ve probably got an area where they keep them until they’re needed for food or ceremony.” Genius grabs the bottom of his shirt to pull it up.

Amy lays a gentle hand on his arm. “You can’t do this. And, we both know why. In the three times I’ve seen you encounter a snake, you fainted twice and broke your ankle.”

“Sprained it, Goddess. Sprained it.”

“And, you think you’re going to walk through a bunch of them? How?”

“Because, I must.” Genius squeezes the hand she has resting on his arm. “Because, you need me.”

“Just like that?”

“Just like that.” Genius smiles a grim smile, but a confident one. “Extraordinary women make ordinary men do extraordinary things.”

Amy tries to smile. “You’re hardly what I’d call ordinary.”

“I appreciate that. But, I am ordinary, and it’s slowly killing me.” Genius turns away with a sigh. After a moment, he turns back. “The modern world has stolen from me, from men like me, the one great Ideal every man craves.”

“Ideal? What Ideal?”

“I don’t know if a woman can understand how excruciatingly unfulfilling it is for a man who’s a romantic idealist to live in the time of the glorification of the sensitive male, of the era of the metrosexual and ‘Queer Eye for the Straight Guy.’

“There is a place, at the heart of the soul of some men, that yearns to cherish, that hungers to protect, that longs to love pure and chaste from afar. And, when he can’t do that, when it is taken from him, when there is nothing that prompts him to nurture that special place, he stops having a purpose, he stops being a man, he stops being human. That such a place ceases to exist in just one man is an unspeakable human tragedy. That it seems to exist in so few of us makes life an absurd farce.

“In ‘Casablanca,’ Rick tells Ilsa that he’s no good at being noble. It’s the ‘macho’ thing to do for a man to let you think he’s only looking out for himself. That makes him look all the more better when he does do the noble thing, the thing his soul cries out for him to do. But, we’re not allowed to do the ‘noble’ thing any more. We’re not allowed to slay the dragon. We’re supposed to negotiate with evil, understand evil. We’re supposed to look inward at ourselves, dwell on our faults, real or perceived, when we should be spitting in the devil’s eye.

“A man can’t live without feeling the confidence of the romantic idealist. Of the chosen dragon slayer. It’s that spark deep within a man’s soul that tells him of all the dragon slayers in the village, HE is the one who can save the damsel in distress because of the goodness of his heart, of his soul. HE is the most worthy.”

“My strength is the strength of ten because my heart is pure,” Amy recites.

“Exactly. But, I’m not going to feed you a line of bull about having never imagined you in anything, but a chaste, virginal white dress, pure and untouchable in some high ivory tower. Still, and though I’m usually loath to presume to speak for others, I feel quite confident in saying this: there are hundreds, if not thousands, of us for whom, to a man, the greatest imaginable rapture can come, when the organ a woman strokes his heart.”

Tears sting Amy’s eyes. “You’re trying to prepare me for the possibility that you won’t make it out of there alive.”

“I’m trying to tell you I’m scared to death. But, I’m not afraid. You allowed yourself to be our Noble Cause. One day, I hope you’ll understand just how precious that is to us. Death doesn’t mean Life ends. Death is when Life becomes meaningless. Death is when the dreaming stops.

“You let us dream, again. You let ME dream, again. You let MY Soul soar, again. I may not slay the dragon. But, you helped me think I could. Nothing I can do for you, even remotely, compares to that. And, that includes laying down my li-–”

Amy quickly covers his mouth. “Don’t say it. Don’t even think it.”

Genius squeezes her hand and slowly pulls it from his face. He turns her around. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve must change.”

“Don’t want to expose me to any more of your shortcomings?”

“Ha, ha. I’m supposed to be the comic relief.”

—

The “valley” of the snakes turned out to be a long narrow pit, ten feet wide and twice as long. Amy and Genius begin a short journey with a two-man escort, and soon dozens of pensive women and excited children of all ages fall in behind them.

A wooden frame of vines and leaves covers the pit. A pair of natives with chest tattoos of wrestling snakes lifts the frame and sets it aside. As Genius steps forward for a closer look, one of the men signals him to stop. He makes a quick apologetic comment.

Genius steps back to Amy’s side. “He thought I was going in. He says I have to wait for the Chief.”

From out of the nearest hut, another pair of natives with the twisted snakes tattoo maneuver through the crowd with a crude, twenty-foot split-rail ladder balanced on their shoulders. They edge towards the pit, and with the help of the other two men, lower the ladder.

“Probably, best I not see too much,” Genius decides. “Like not looking down when crossing a high bridge.”

“You are going to come up with some brilliant plan that’ll get you out of having to do this, right?”

“I’m open to suggestions.”

A murmur behind them catches their attention. The ever-growing crowd parts, giving way to the Chief and his entourage. They assume positions on the far side of the pit. The Chief raises his hands for quiet and begins to speak.

Genius quietly translates. “Paraphrasing, he’s reminding everyone what a great and benevolent Chief he has been, yada yada.” With an occasional snide, editorial comment thrown in, Genius passes along the gist of the Chief’s speech.

The Ah Mah Lin Say has come to rid them of the dragon and has brought along a champion to retrieve the glass sword that was stolen from the village. But, because those of ‘pale skin’ have betrayed them so often, Ah Mah Lin Say’s champion must prove himself a true and honorable champion by walking through the Valley of the Snakes.

From across the pit, the Chief signals for Genius to go to the side with the ladder.

Genius spreads his hands. “Well, Goddess? Anything?”

“Nothing, I’m afraid.”

“Then into the Valley of the Shadow of Death I go.”

TO BE CONTINUED

EPISODE 10

2009-09-02T20:10:00.001-07:00

As Genius raises his hand in greeting to the men approaching them from the untouched section of the burnt out village, the ‘Chief of Staff’ brusquely pushes him aside. With a haughty, almost snide expression on his face, he reaches toward Amy.

Recalling the way Genius responded at the bridge, Amy shifts her weight slightly, and duplicates the same blow with the heel of her right hand to the man’s sternum, achieving the same result. The ‘Chief of Staff’ grunts and coughs as air whooshes from his lungs. He stumbles back, not falling, but dropping to one knee.

Genius steps to Amy’s side. “Good work, Goddess. He caught me by surprise. This time.”

“What do you suppose –.”

The ‘Chief of Staff’ looks back at the other men and gasps out an order.

Genius spits an expletive and swings around, putting himself between Amy and the others.

“I’m not going to like what he just said, am I?” Amy asks.

“Your powers serve you well, young Jedi. He just ordered the others to kill us.”

The leader and his two companions hesitate, showing the ‘Chief of Staff’ matching expressions of uncertainty and surprise. The Leader gestures toward Amy and speaks with a mystified tone.

The Chief of Staff spits out a repeat of the order to kill them. One of the other two men reaches for the blowpipe dangling from its loop on the waist of his loincloth. He looks at the Leader, who shrugs and nods. The other of their group reaches for his blowpipe.

Genius tries stretching up and out to protect as much of Amy as possible. “Looks like I’ve made a serious miscalculation. My apologies, Amy Lindsay.”

The Leader cries out suddenly, as if suddenly startled. The two underlings freeze with their hands on their blowpipes. The Chief of Staff, still on one knee, whips his head around to look at Genius and Amy so fast his neck cracks audibly.

The Chief of Staff speaks, his tone haughty, but with a bit of fear, as he asks a demanding question. At the end Amy makes out an odd pronunciation of her name.

Keeping his gaze on the four Indians, Genius leans toward Amy and speaks in a low tone. “They want to know how I know the Sacred Name of Amy Lindsay.”

Even speaking her name in a low tone causes a noticeable rise in the fear and uncertainty of their captors. A sudden memory flares in Amy’s mind.

“The way he just pronounced my name,” Amy tells Genius. “It’s the same way one of those men who tried to kidnap me pronounced it. The one who said he never would have let them rape me. The one who had the Brotherhood tattoo. Ah-ma Lind-say.”

Amy’s pronunciation causes gasps of varying degrees from the four Indians. One looks about to drop to a knee and genuflect. The Leader helps the Chief of Staff to his feet and pulls him away for an intense conversation that waxes and wanes between discussion and argument.

“This is an interesting turn of events,” Genius notes as he watches them.

“We’re having too many interesting turn of events for my liking.” Amy’s brow furrows. “Or would that be turns of events?”

“This may be a good one. The way they respond to your name tells me – .”

The conversation between the Indians ends with the Chief of Staff stalking off toward one of the razed huts. The Leader makes a deferential approach to Genius and Amy. His tone is almost apologetic, and from his gestures Amy deciphers he wants them to accompany him.

Genius makes an assenting nod and wiggles into the photographer’s backpack. “They’re going to take us to the High Priest.”

“Is that a good thing?”

“Yes, Martha Stewart. Anything that doesn’t involve us being pierced by sharp, poisonous objects in the near future, is a good thing.”

With the Leader moving out front they form a procession toward the hut remains where the ‘Chief of Staff’ was pushing and moving mounds of leaves and branches several feet behind the lump of leaves and branches. Suddenly, he disappears from view into the ground.

Upon reaching that spot Amy sees a heavy steel hatch nestled in the ground.

The Leader mutters something as he braces himself and grabs hold of the rope ‘knob’ and pries up the thick, squeaking door.

Amy wonders, “What did he say?”

“Cleaning it up, he says its just like that spiteful male offspring of a female dog not to leave the hatch open for them.”

“What a sweet talker you are.”

“I’m just a translator, sweetheart.” Genius edges past Amy to regard with a sour expression a set of stone steps descending into the darkness.

The Leader waves one of their other escorts to come hold open the door. He takes a couple of steps downward, still muttering. He stops and feels around the wall. Light flares out of the opening, revealing more steps that descend and make an abrupt ninety degree turn out of sight.

“I didn’t know these huts had basements,” Amy murmurs.

“Usually, they don’t,” Genius replies. “And not with electricity.” His brow furrows. “Strange.”

With a twinge of exasperation, Amy sighs, “I wish you would stop doing that.”

“What?”

“Saying ‘Strange’. Just say what it is, you don’t have to preface it saying the word: Strange.”

The tone of dismay prompts the ‘Kidnap Leader’ to halt on stairs and regard Amy with a troubled expression. The escort not holding the door takes a fearful step backward.

“Careful, Goddess,” Genius warns. “It makes the natives restless when you’re unhappy.”

“As it should.” She forces a smile to show the others all is well. “This could turn into a pretty comfortable gig. I like men that jump when I bark.”

“Spoken like a true b –.”

“Careful yourself,” she warns.

The Leader speaks to Genius in a questioning tone. Genius offers a short reply that placates him, and the Leader turns and resumes down the steps. Genius waves for Amy to precede him.

Looking down, Amy spies, cutting through musty dirt walls showing a glint of moisture, a series of twelve stone steps ending at a small landing that executed a ninety degree turn, followed by another dozen of steps ending at another small landing, followed by a repeat of another twelve steps, this time giving way to a larger landing, more of a brief hallway, with a closed wooden door at the end.

As they edge down the steep, damp steps, Amy asks: “What was ‘strange’ up in the hut.”

“A village with an ‘escape hatch’ leading down. Usually, at a sign of trouble, the village would just scatter into the jungle. In fact – “

Before Genius can elaborate the procession stops at the large landing. The Leader taps on the massive wooden door, listens to a response, taps, listens, tap, then steps back. The door squeals open. A pair of dark, narrow eyes regard them through the cracked opening. The eyes withdraw and the door widens. The Leader edges out of their way and waves them forward.

Amy steps forward, and stops suddenly in the doorway, almost causing Genius to bump into her. “Are you going to use the ‘s’ word when you see this?” she wonders as she turns to give Genius a look past her.

The door opens to a small plateau, and stretching out far below them, in a wide underground valley bisected by a small river, a village of dozens and dozens of grass huts spreads out hundreds of yards in all directions. Dirt paths crisscross between huts and, like something out of Victorian England, street lights made to look like gas lamps light intersections.

Genius replies, “Oh, like this is the first underground village I’ve ever seen. You really need to get out more often, Goddess.” He glances over to Amy. His mock disappointment in her morphs into genuine awe. “Damn,” he whispers.

Before they can take in more of the sight the Indians jog past and down a winding path leading from their spot down to the village below. Leader nods and starts down the path, expecting them to follow.

Grass-skirted, topless women, some with vegetation stuffed baskets on their heads or infants on their hips, eye them nervously as they pass. Children gawk, and when several began to trail behind them, the ‘Leader’ genially shoos them away.

Their zig-zag trek along the dirt paths between huts and cooking pits ends at a ‘block’ dominated by a single large hut differentiated from the rest of the grass structures by a set of wooden steps leading up to a wide porch.

“City hall,” Genius decides.

Their guide signals for them to stop at the foot of the steps, then continues up and pushes through the dangling vines blocking the hut’s doorway.

Genius shrugs off the photographer’s backpack and executes a slow three-sixty to take in their surroundings. He sighs and shakes his head.

“Under the circumstances,” Amy tells him, “it’s okay for you to use the ‘s’ word.”

“I’ll behave myself,” Genius promises. His brow furrows. “There is just enough wear and tear around here to tell me this place has been around longer than a few years. I like to believe stories of a dragon flying around, burning villages, would have reached the outside world a lot sooner, if the reason this place was built was to hide from a dragon.”

“Think this place of refuge was here before a dragon started menacing their villages?”

“If that was their ‘regular’ village above us.” Genius squints at Amy. “Goddess? Your hair.”

Amy tucks her hair behind her ears. “Well, I’m sorry. It’s been a long day. We had to ditch an assassin, hike through the jungle, I got mud splattered – .”

“I don’t mean that. It was moving.”

“It was …?” Amy touches her cheek and scans above her. “Blowing air. A breeze,” she realizes. She begins a slow turn, eyes on the massive cave ceiling. Here eyes narrow. “Are those holes up there?”

Genius follows her gaze to the far side of the cave. Near where the distant cave wall met the ceiling, he picks out a line of nine dark circles evenly space about a hundred yards apart. “Lined up all nice and straight,” he observes. “Manmade, not natural.” Turning, he spots another nine on the opposite wall. “And their twins.”

“Phony village above, underground village with ventilation below.”

“Used by natives,” Genius points out, “that we are supposed to believe are so technologically naive as to mistake a helicopter for a dragon.”

“I thought a renegade Chinese general living in a South American jungle castle was strange.”

“There’s that ‘s’ word again. I wonder – .”

A commotion from the ‘town hall’ hut interrupts Genius. Two tall, grim faced natives file out and take up positions on opposite sides of the opening. Genius instinctively maneuvers himself protectively in front of Amy.

A tall, narrow man with a heavily lined face and a pinched, unfriendly expression steps haughtily onto the porch. An intricately woven crown of silver, gold and bronze rests tightly on a round, nearly bald head. His bare chest is covered with several tattoos, including a small version of the blood red tattoo of the Brotherhood of the Blood Orchid. His eyes set in a squint as he steps to the end of the porch and leans out to look around Genius at Amy. Those narrow eyes widen and he straightens, as if slapped. He spins and is through the vines dangling in the doorway almost before Genius and Amy can register what he is doing. The two other natives rush to follow him.

Amy asks, “What do you suppose that was about?”

Before Genius can reply, loud bickering voices filter out of the hut. Amy picks out ‘Ah Mah Lin Say’ just before one commanding voice barks out something, and the voices soften.

Genius leans forward, trying to make something of the chittering. He looks at Amy and spreads his hands a bit. “The best I can make out, is they’re arguing whether or not you are really the Ah Mah Lin Say.”

“And just what is the Ah Mah Lin Say? And she is supposed slay dragons?”

Through the hanging vines at the front door, the Kidnap Leader’s head pokes out. He signals for them to enter.

Genius lifts the backpack over a shoulder. “I guess we’re about to find out.”

Through the doorway and through a brief ante room, the Lead Kidnapper leads them into a spacious room singly furnished with a large, ornate wooden throne decked with intricately carved animals and flowers. The tall narrow man with the crown sits perched on the throne, his chin in the air, trying and failing to look aloof and disinterested. Behind the throne and to the left, the sour faced ‘Chief of Staff’ glares. A half dozen natives stand near the throne … the chief’s ‘secret service’ protection, Amy decides. Their Kidnap Leader friend quickly takes up a position to the left of the Chief of Staff. Each corner of the wall behind shows maws of open doorways.

Out of the corner of his mouth Genius tells Amy, “Remember, you’re the Ah Mah Lin Say. You outrank everyone here.”

“Meaning …?”

“Look haughty and disinterested.”

Genius stops several feet from the throne and shows the palm of an upraised hand … the Universal gesture of friendship.

The Chief starts to speak. He has to halt to clear his throat. As he speaks Amy detects the slight tremble of forced courage. When he pauses, Genius turns to Amy.

“He says there is some question if you are indeed, the Ah Mah Lin Say. He hopes the matter will be cleared up in a moment.”

“What happens ‘in a moment’?”

“He didn’t say. I would guess – .”

The Chief of Staff speaks to the King, his tone dismissive.

Genius glares at the man, then turns back to Amy. “The King’s toady there is wondering if you are the Ah Mah Lin Say, why do you need me to translate? Why don’t you speak their language?”

“Why don’t I speak their language?”

“My reply to him is going to be if he’s such a high mucky-muck, why doesn’t HE speak YOUR language. Look annoyed and dismissive and condescending.”

Amy follows his direction as Genius turns and snaps out his response in their language. The Chief of Staff tightens. To his left, the Leader from their bridge capture, fights to keep a smile off his face.

From one of the doorways in the back corner, a smallish, white haired, stoop shouldered native hurries into the throne room. Amy’s first impression is: librarian. That impression is further strengthened by a bundle of large, thick yellowed rolls of paper … scrolls … balanced precariously in his arms. As he stops to kneel in front of the throne, several rolls drop from his arms.

The King snaps at him with a tone of irritation and embarrassment that needs no translation.

The Librarian bobs and nods and searches through the scrolls. He finds the right one and, head bowed, extends it to the King. The King signals to two of his guard. The men step forward, one takes the scroll, and together they begin unrolling it, facing the throne.

Amy taps Genius on the shoulder. He answers her inquisitive expression with one of his own. The scroll is thick; nothing shows through the back.

Fully unrolled the scroll looks about eight feet long and two feet in height. Just over the top Amy sees the King’s uncertain expression. The Chief of Staff shows annoyance, and the leader of their capture seems awed and mesmerized as his eyes dart back and forth between the scroll and Amy.

The King issues orders, and the men holding the scroll begin re-rolling it. The King speaks and gestures, and the men turn around and begin unrolling the long, thick scroll for the benefit of Amy and Genius. The Librarian begins to speak, in the low monotone of a storyteller.

Genius translates: “This is the story of Ah Mah Lin Say, the Sun Goddess.”

The men with the scroll stop, revealing only the first foot or so.

Amy sees the revealed image, a faded but clearly distinguishable painted face.

Her face.

Genius looks back at Amy, and in an awed, hushed tone, says, “My God, Goddess. You ARE a Goddess.”

-TO BE CONTINUED -

EPISODE 9

2009-09-02T20:09:00.000-07:00

“Now, we’ll need to shake a leg,” Genius tells Amy as he turns away from watching their abandoned jeep float down river. ” I want to put as much distance between us and that jeep as possible.”

Amy glances down river and sees the jeep bobbing in the rapids, about to disappear around the river bend. “I wonder,” she begins, still watching the jeep as she takes a step to follow Genius. Her musing is cut off as she bumps into him. “Stopping for a rest already?”

Genius raises a hand for silence, then points to the far end of the bridge. Amy peers around, following his pointing finger.

Four tall, bronzed Indians, wearing only loin cloths, block the end of the bridge. They adopt identical poses, crouching slightly, one foot in front of the other, blowpipes ready at their lips.

A fifth, larger man stands on the bridge, just in front and to one side of the others, his arm raised, ready to give the signal to fire. The angle of his body exposes a portion of the skull and blood orchid tattoo high on the back of his left shoulder, the signature tattoo of the Brotherhood of the Blood Orchid.

“This is not good,” Amy points out.

“Could be worse,” Genius replies. “They could have shot us already.” Genius raises his hands in the Universal ‘I’m Unarmed’ posture and tells Amy from the corner of his mouth, “Stay behind me. Be ready to run.”

“Where?” Amy asks. “Back the way we came?”

The group’s leader barks an order at them.

“He said – .”

“Shut up,” Amy completes. “That pretty much translates in any language.”

The Leader beckons them to come forward.

“Well?” Amy asks.

“Since they’ll probably dart us anyway if we don’t, lets get on their good side and save them the trouble of that.” Hands upraised, Genius starts forward.

Amy starts to mimic his moves, but Genius tells her, “No, Goddess. Keep your hands down, but where they can see them.”

“Why?”

“A hunch. They don’t see many tall blondes around here. If you act superior, they might treat you superior.”

“Are you –.”

The Leader again barks the ‘shut up’ command.

As they come abreast of the Leader his hand flies up to signal them to stop. He waves for the other four to stand easy. They comply immediately. His expression grows curious as he leans around Genius to look Amy up and down. A hand reaches toward Amy.

In a quick, precise, practiced move, Genius slaps the man’s hand up and to the side with one hand, and delivers a quick, hard punch underneath to the big man’s sternum with the heel of his other hand.

Stumbling back, the big man and two of his compatriots land in a tangled heap. The remaining Indians gawk in surprise, then turn and begin to raise their blowguns.

Genius immediately falls to one knee, bowing his head in a placating manner. “Forgive me, Great one. But you were in danger. It is death to any man who touches the Goddess without her blessing.” Genius looks up speaks rapid fire in a language unknown to Amy.

The two men lower their blowguns and look to their leader, who’s expression mixes surprise and uncertainty. He gestures the two men tangled with him to rise, and all of them to be at ease. His head tilts sideways as he speaks strange words in a curious tone.

Genius responds in English: “The Goddess has come in response to your call.” He then speaks in the strange language of the Leader, apparently translating his English. The Leader signals his four men to follow him. They move off the bridge and several steps down the path stop and huddle.

“You are full of surprises,” Amy tells Genius. “I thought you said you lacked any talent for learning foreign languages.”

“I don’t.” Genius taps a spot behind his right hear. “Universal translator implant. Another bit of electronic wizardry from the Alcomist Club.” He glances where the five men are conferencing. “I can understand their words as they speak them, but I have to say my response aloud in English to get the unit’s translation before I speak them. Cumbersome. We’re working on –.”

The Leader ends his urgent chat with his men and steps forward. Just to the edge of the bridge, Amy notes, telling her that Genius has, for the moment, earned their respect. He speaks, the tone suggesting a question.

Genius freezes for a moment, then nods. “Cha.”

The Leader says a few more things to Genius, then returns to talk with his men.

Genius turns to Amy, a grimace crossing his face. “This goddess thing may not have been such a good idea after all.”

“Why not?”

“You know what the big guy just asked me?”

“No.”

“Well, when I said you were here in answer to their prayers, right? And they accepted that because, apparently the whole village has been praying.” Genius grimaces again and adds sheepishly, “For a Deliverer.”

“A Deliverer? What kind of Deliverer?”

“Well, the big guy wanted to know if you were here to slay the dragon.”

“The dragon?” The strangeness of that had barely registered with Amy when something else occurs to her. “And you told him I was, didn’t you!”

“Kind of.”

“Kind of?”

Genius makes a placating gesture with both hands. “Now calm down. They’re going to take us to their village, which he said is about, translating from their concept of time to our’s, I think about an hour’s walk. I’m sure before we get there I’ll have thought of something.”

“You damn well better. Or I’m going to demonstrate it is indeed death to mess with the Goddess … by strangling you.”

—

The Leader and two of his men assume positions in front of them, with the remaining two dropping in behind. Amy notes how, when she slows, those behind slow, keeping a respectful distance. Any amusement that might have brought her is mitigated by worry of how they were going to take the knowledge at their village that she was neither heaven sent, nor remotely capable of slaying their dragon. Or whatever it really was they were praying for deliverance from so fervently.

Amy’s confidence is further shaken when, in less then twenty minutes and not the hour projected by Genius, the narrow path winding through the jungle opens up to a village of dozens of seemingly random placed grass huts separated by moist dirt paths and the occasional cooking pit. It appears, from the arc of the path, that the village continues out of sight around a bend.

“An hour’s walk, Genius?”

Genius tosses a nasty look at her over his shoulder.

“Careful. I’ll bring fire down from heaven and wipe that disrespectful expression off your face.”

“Don’t get too caught up in the role, Goddess, we may –.”

The Leader turns and signals them to stop. He waves the two trailing men forward, and the five hold a quick, intense conference. The Leader nods to two of the men, and they take off running through the village and out of sight around the bend. He turns and speaks to Genius.

Genius nods, listening without comment. The Leader finishes and he and the remaining Indians walk deeper into the village, also disappearing around the bend.

Genius begins shrugging off the large photographer’s backpack. “We’re to wait here.”

“Where are they going? To get the dragon?”

“Ha, ha. There’s no dragon. Dragons don’t exist. Its just their name for something they don’t quite understand.”

“You hope. Where’d they go?”

Genius carries the backpack over to the nearest hut and sets it on the small stoop. “He sent the first two off to get the High Priest. Apparently he doesn’t have the authority to take us where ever the High Priest is hiding.” Genius looks around. “Where the High Priest and the rest of the villagers are hiding.”

“Rest of the village? Hiding?”

Genius waves to encompass the few huts around them. “Where are the people? This place feels deserted.”

“Carlos said people were being kidnaped.”

“Yeah. Carlos. Although we should take everything he’s told us with a grain of salt, I think we can believe the kidnaping part.”

“Kidnaped by the strange Chinese general living in a castle?”

“General Fu exists. We’ve established that.”

“And what about that lovely tattoo on Fearless Leader’s back? Friend of Carlos?”

Genius shakes his head. “I don’t know. Remember, the Brotherhood of the Blood Orchid were mercenaries. Sellers of themselves to the highest bidder. That they ordered your death, then called it off, suggests there might be some kind of schism in the group.”

“I hope we’ve fallen in with the good guys.”

“Assuming there are good guys.” Genius checks his watch. “You know what worries me right now? That we’re in the village at a time when the rest of the village thought it best not to be here. Let’s take a look around. Carefully.”

“What are we looking for? Carefully.”

“I don’t know.” Genius hefts the photographer’s backpack and drapes it over a shoulder. “Dragon sign?” They start for the bend, and stop quickly when they reach it. “Like this.”

From their spot at the bend Amy and Genius see the village spread out on three large paths. Where should have stood numerous huts lay only wet, flat scorched shells of over a hundred huts. Charred wood, fragments of frames, jutting skyward mingled with clumps of ash and remains of leaves and grass.

Genius notes, “This is a rather unpleasant development.”

“You’re telling me.”

Genius shrugs off the large backpack and hands it to Amy. He motions her to stay as he walks over to the nearest burned out hut. He pushes at a bit of the burned out frame, then kneels to shift through a mound of sodden, partially burned leaves. “Strange.”

“I just hate it when you say that.”

“Sorry, Goddess.” Genius stands and brushes his hands. “In a climate like this, there’s only two ways a village reaches this state. One is the use of a flame accelerant. There’s no sign of that.”

“What’s the other way.”

“Repeated setting of fires.”

“Like from a fire-breathing dragon?”

“Or a reasonable facsimile.”

“Like what?”

Genius suddenly snaps his eyes skyward. “Like that thing coming at us right now.”

Amy has a split second to make out the approach of something large and green before Genius grabs her arm, nearly pulling her off her feet.

“Come on!” he hisses, hustling her around the remains of the nearest hut and into the jungle. When she slows to turn and look up, Genius encircles her waist with an arm and tosses her into the waist high foliage.

A sudden roaring growl erupts above them, a sound that clutches at the base of Amy’s spine and stands the hair on the back of her neck.

From their hiding place at the outer edge of the village they watch the dragon land at the ‘intersection’ they had just fled.

Forty yards from where they lay the ‘dragon’ settles to the ground. The squat body measures about thirty feet, and a thick neck stretches up about fifteen feet, tapering to an oval head with, blackened, fist sized nostrils and a gaping mouth with sharp, triangular teeth. A large tail forms a kind of ‘s’ shape, tapering to a point. The beast seems to have landed on flat on its belly, the front and back legs remained splayed out, as if it still in flight.

And extending out of the middle of the creature’s back is a short strut leading to rotor blades that make hardly a sound as they furiously rotate.

“A helicopter?” Amy whispers. “Made to look like a dragon. Like a parade float.”

“A ‘float’ attached to one of the Chinese Army’s state of the art stealth choppers,” Genius amends. He sees Amy’s questioning eyebrows. “I, ah, got a look at the blueprints a few years back. Unofficially.”

Another animalistic roar erupts from the ‘beast’ … an obvious recording to their ears, but still a sound that shakes their spines. Jets of flame spew from the nostrils. The dampness of the remains of the hut it strikes results in a bit of smoldering, but no flames.

Genius nudges Amy and points to the head. “Probably flame throwers in the nose.”

“You figured the dragon was a chopper all along, didn’t you?’

“You don’t think I believe in actual flying, fire breathing dragons, do you?”

“You often manage to leave me plenty of reason to question your sanity.”

A sound from the dragon copter, prompts Genius to signal for quiet. A hatch slides open up along the side of the fake beast, and a large man dressed in green jungle fatigues and carrying a large military looking walkie-talkie jumps to the ground. Though he moves bent over against the wash of the rotors, his height makes him instantly recognizable.

Carlos.

He walks directly toward them, his head swivelling left and right, checking out the village. About twenty-five yards from where they lay he stops, turns, and speaks into the walkie-talkie.

Genius strains forward, then settles back with a sign. He taps an ear, shakes his head, then shrugs.

Carlos speaks for less then a minute before deactivating the walkie-talkie and returning to the copter. A moment later the pitch of the engine deepens, and the helicopter rises up and whines skyward. In seconds it is out of sight.

Genius stands and edges cautiously into the razed village. After a moment he signals for Amy to join him.

“I know I’ve probably asked this before, but, what next?”

“Well, if I’ve got my bearings right, the copter headed off in the general direction of General Fu’s castle.”

“Are we going to go dragon hunting then?”

Genius thinks a moment, then sighs heavily. “I’d like to.”

“But?”

“It would be rude to take off on our guests.” Genius nods and points toward the untouched section of the village .

Following his finger Amy sees four men approaching from behind them: the Leader, two of their escort, and a man of about thirty, dressed in the same loin cloths as the others, but with several thick, grass and twine bracelets around his wrists and ankles.

“Looks awful young to be a tribal Chief,” she notes.

“More likely his Chief of Staff, or protege. Apparently our friend’s word wasn’t enough to warrant the chief coming for us himself.” He steps forward. “Let me do the talking.”

“Just don’t promise them I’ll be slaying any dragons.”

As Genius raises his hand in greeting, the ‘Chief of Staff’ brusquely pushes him aside. With a haughty, almost snide expression on his face, he reaches toward Amy.

Genius steps to Amy’s side. “Good work, Goddess. He caught me by surprise. This time.”

“What do you suppose –.”

The ‘Chief of Staff’ looks back at the other men and gasps out an order.

Genius spits an expletive and swings around, putting himself between Amy and the others.

“I’m not going to like what he just said, am I?” Amy asks.

“Your powers serve you well, young Jedi. He just ordered the others to kill us.”

- TO BE CONTINUED -

EPISODE 8

2009-09-02T20:08:00.000-07:00

Grabbing the wheel in preparation to hauling himself back into the jeep, Carlos’ feet skid out from under him. The big Peruvian guide lands on his back with a splash in a puddle that did not exist moments before. He is quickly on his feet, laughing and shaking off the rain and mud and asking Amy:

“Could you reach into that box and hand me the triple-X size tee shirt. Its mine anyway.”

Amy finds the shirt and hands it to him. Carlos settles sideways in the driver’s seat to peel off his wet shirt.

Amy turns to Genius, and freezes. The color has drained from his face and his lips press together, tight and white. Before Amy can ask, he raises a quieting finger to his lips, and points to Carlos’ left shoulder.

Amy turns and looks. Her head feels suddenly light. Clearly visible up on the smooth, hairless shoulder of the big man there shone a detailed tattoo of a skull sitting atop a red orchid – the identifying symbol of a member of the Brotherhood of the Blood Orchid.

Moving cautiously, Genius brings his legs up and around, holding them up at Carlos’ back. As the big man bends forward to wiggle the tee shirt over his head, Genius pushes. Arms trapped and head covered, Carlos flies out into the rain, landing face down and skidding into the waist high foliage flanking the rutted road.

Genius grabs the wheel and hoists himself into the driver’s seat. Carlos has left the engine running. Genius slaps the jeep into gear and stomps on the gas. Amy slams deep into the back seat. She struggles to look over her shoulder. They are several yards away before Carlos stumbles back onto the rutted road. He looks about to start after them, then realizes the futility of pursuit and fires his shirt onto the ground.

“What’s he doing?” Genius asks.

“Probably using language a lady like me shouldn’t hear and won’t repeat.” She sticks her head between the driver and passenger seats. “What’s the plan?”

“I don’t know. I’m making this up as I go along.”

“This is no time to be quoting Indiana Jones.”

“According to my sister its never a bad time to quote Harrison Ford.” After a moment he says, “After we put a few miles between us and our ‘friend’ Carlos, we’ll abandon the jeep and head south.”

“Why abandon the jeep?”

Genius nods toward the On-Star system.

“Can’t you disable it?”

“I can. But if we abandon it somewhere and head in another direction, they’ll waste time recovering it.”

“You said head south. Why?”

“Chile. I’ll be more welcome there than in Bolivia or Argentina.”

“Why is that?”

“No comment.” After a moment he curses, “Every damn time.”

“What?”

“Every time I come down to South America I wind up having to walk out of the jungle.”

Satisfied that Genius seems to know what he is doing, Amy settles back.

After a couple of minutes Genius suggests, “Check those boxes. See if our friend was carrying any food.”

Amy finds mostly clothes and shoes for people of all ages, sizes and sexes. One box is stuffed with Ron Popeil gadgets.

“Bingo!” She lifts a heart-shaped package from another box. “Godiva chocolates. A twelve count carton,” she notes. “Either Carlos has a lot of lady friends, or he is stocking up for Valentine’s Day for the Mrs. until about 2020.”

“Not power bars,” Genius sighs. “But they’ll do.” After a minute he reports, “I think the rain is letting up. When it stops we’ll pull over and do a proper search of the jeep.”

“For what?”

“A prudent man like Carlos would have some kind of emergency kit in case he was stranded. Knife, fishing line, water purification tablets.” He slaps the steering wheel. “Something I should have brought along if I hadn’t been so damn trusting. That’s what happens when you leave the field and become an office wonk.”

Amy completes the inventory. “There are some jars and what looks like homemade sauce. Pack them in the photographers bag?”

“No jars. We’ll be traveling light.” Genius laughs. “With my luck they’d be bootleg marinara sauce.”

“There’s this,” Amy says, grinning while holding up something from the box of gadgets for Genius to check out in the rear view mirror. A small, battery operated egg beater. “Maybe Carlos has his own version of Louisa.”

“You’ve got a cruel streak, Goddess. You really do.”

—

A half hour later the rain abruptly ceases. By then they have left behind the open area and are again surround by menacing jungle. Finding a less claustrophobic spot, Genius halts the jeep and checks the glove compartment. He finds the emergency kit, with it’s large bladed knife . It’s hollow handle holds, among other things, fishing line and water purification tablets.

“We won’t lack for shelter, food, or water,” he announces. “No maps, but I wouldn’t expect Carlos would need one.”

Genius plucks his cell phone from his hip. “No problem, I’ll just – .” His phone fails to beep. He shakes it, taps buttons, checks it’s weight.

“Problem?” Amy asks.

“BIG problem.” He pries open the battery lid. He shows Amy the empty battery section. “That was a neat trick Carlos pulled.”

“When he borrowed it just before we left the hotel,” Amy realizes. “And me without mine.”

“Yeah, its probably back in Mexico in the rubble with what’s left of Ramirez.” Genius resumes rummaging in the glove compartment. After a moment he straightens. “Would have preferred to have not found this.” He holds up a nine millimeter pistol.

“A firearm is not a good thing to have when you’re stranded in the jungle?”

Genius turns to reveal her the grip. “Ah,” Amy notes. “Biometric lock. Can you ‘adjust’ it.”

“Nope. And neither could Carlos, so I wonder why he kept it.”

“Its not his?”

“Standard C.I.A. issue. And I don’t think the agent it belonged to just handed it over to Carlos.” Genius studies the pistol a moment, then with an angry exclamation whirls and pegs it far into the jungle.

After a moment it lands with a distant ‘thwack’.

“Did you hear that?” Amy asks.

“Pegged that one pretty good, didn’t I,” Genius confesses with a rueful smile.

“No. I mean that other sound. I heard something else while I was listening for the gun to hit.”

They listen. After a moment Genius nods. “Yeah. I hear it. Sounds like ….”

“Running water. A river.”

“Right. Stay close, and stay on your toes.”

—

After fifteen minutes of slipping on and pushing around slick ground and tree roots, following the ever growing hiss of rushing water, the jungle opens up, revealing a swollen river of frothy, churning brown.

“A river at our backs would be nice,” Genius muses.

“But …?”

“I can’t swim.”

“What?”

“I can’t swim.” He looks at Amy. “And don’t make a big deal about it, okay?”

“I won’t. Its just that its kind of refreshing to find something you’re not an expert at.”

“The illusion of my perfection shattered. I’m sorry.”

“I never thought you were perfect.”

“With the situation we’re in, Goddess, you ought to be stroking my ego.”

“Just as long as it’s the only thing of your’s I have to stroke.”

Genius chuckles as he peers up and down the river’s edges. “When you finish patting yourself on the back on that first class bit of banter, take a look down there and tell me if that’s a bridge.”

Amy follows his gaze. “I believe that is a bridge, yes.”

Genius checks the jungle they have just trekked through. “And I believe that little road we were on will take us right to it.” In a passable Captain Kirk impersonation, he announces, “I have … a plan.”

—

The ruts lead them to the bridge, a half century old structure made entirely of wood and in need of paint. The timbers are of various shades of color and wear. Genius figures that means the bridge was routinely maintained; a good sign.

“Is the fact there are no safety rails a bad sign?”

“Don’t let it worry you. We’re not driving across. The jeep goes into the river.”

“The jeep goes into the river? Bulletin, Mr. ‘I can’t swim’. Maybe your lack of familiarity with the water is a factor here, but you can’t drive a jeep under water. Especially not in these deep rapids.”

“Thank you. Mrs. Jacques Cousteau. But we’re going to make the jeep as light as possible, button her up, and while the good Jeep Calypso is floating downstream, with the G.P.S. tracker, we’ll be heading upstream.”

“I see. You know, its really fascinating, how your mind works.”

“Thank you.”

“I’m not sure I meant that as a compliment.”

Working quickly, they unload the jeep and transfer what they need in the multi-pocketed photographers carry-all. With Amy directing, Genius edges the jeep off the ruts and toward the bank. Reaching the point he wants, Genius climbs out. He secures the steering wheel with one of the TAZ tee shirts Carlos had purchased.

Amy wonders aloud, “Why do I get the feeling you’ve done this before?”

“No comment,” Genius grunts as he tightens the t-shirt. He loops a section of fishing line around the gear shift, then the rear view mirror. He rolls up the door window, leaving a minuscule opening for the fishing line. He steps away from the jeep, making certain the line is not caught up. “How are your knees, Goddess?”

“Well, they don’t get as many compliments as my legs, but I like them.”

Genius shakes his head and chuckles. “That’s what I get for asking an imprecise question that can be used as a straight line. I mean ….”

“I know what you mean,” Amy laughs. She looks for a place to set the photographers carry-all down, then readies herself at the jeep’s bumper. “Say when.”

“Watch your footing, and watch the mud that’ll kick up.” Genius loops the line around one hand, then holds it elevated as he grabs the jeep’s door handle with his other hand. “Okay … when!”

The jeep edges forward. Suddenly it lurches, the front dipping as it rolls off the edge of the bank.. Amy feels her balance shifting too fast, and just manages to land on her knees with a wet squish as the jeep picks up speed and rolls away. Genius barely has time to release his hold on the door handle. His pull on the fishing line is more from falling down and away then a planned tug. With a whine the jeeps gears grind, then catch.

Mud and exhaust splatter Amy’s face. She hears rather then sees the jeep crashing through brush. Then comes a heavy splash. Pawing at her face, she feels Genius rush past, then hears the quick thud of his boots on wood.

“There she goes!”

Amy, still wiping mud from her eyes and face, has to take his word for it. She hears the thud of boots again, then Genius is at her side, pushing his handkerchief into her hands. “I told you to be careful of the mud.”

As Genius guides her toward the bridge Amy’s eyes clear enough for her to see the camouflaged top of the jeep bounding downstream.

“Thanks,” she says, and hands Genius back his handkerchief.

He shoves it back in the pocket of his khakis and hoists the photographers bag over one shoulder. “You’re welcome Goddess. Now we’ll need to shake a leg. I want to put as much distance between us and that jeep as possible.”

Genius raises a hand for silence, then points to the far end of the bridge. Amy peers around and follows his pointing finger.

Four tall, bronzed Indians, wearing only loin cloths, block the end of the bridge. They adopt identical poses, crouching slightly, one foot in front of the other, blowpipes ready at their lips.

A fifth man stands on the bridge, just in front and to one side of the others, his arm raised, ready to give the signal to fire. The angle of his body exposes a portion of the skull and blood orchid tattoo high on the back of his left shoulder.

TO BE CONTINUED

EPISODE 7

2009-09-02T20:07:00.002-07:00

“Could you reach into that box and hand me the triple-X size tee shirt. Its mine anyway.”

Amy finds the shirt and hands it to him. Carlos settles sideways in the driver’s seat to peel off his wet shirt.

“What’s he doing?” Genius asks.

“Probably using language a lady like me shouldn’t hear and won’t repeat.” She sticks her head between the driver and passenger seats. “What’s the plan?”

“I don’t know. I’m making this up as I go along.”

“This is no time to be quoting Indiana Jones.”

“Why abandon the jeep?”

Genius nods toward the On-Star system.

“Can’t you disable it?”

“I can. But if we abandon it somewhere and head in another direction, they’ll waste time recovering it.”

“You said head south. Why?”

“Chile. I’ll be more welcome there than in Bolivia or Argentina.”

“Why is that?”

“No comment.” After a moment he curses, “Every damn time.”

“What?”

“Every time I come down to South America I wind up having to walk out of the jungle.”

Satisfied that Genius seems to know what he is doing, Amy settles back.

After a couple of minutes Genius suggests, “Check those boxes. See if our friend was carrying any food.”

Amy finds mostly clothes and shoes for people of all ages, sizes and sexes. One box is stuffed with Ron Popeil gadgets.

“Not power bars,” Genius sighs. “But they’ll do.” After a minute he reports, “I think the rain is letting up. When it stops we’ll pull over and do a proper search of the jeep.”

“For what?”

Amy completes the inventory. “There are some jars and what looks like homemade sauce. Pack them in the photographers bag?”

“No jars. We’ll be traveling light.” Genius laughs. “With my luck they’d be bootleg marinara sauce.”

“You’ve got a cruel streak, Goddess. You really do.”

—

“We won’t lack for shelter, food, or water,” he announces. “No maps, but I wouldn’t expect Carlos would need one.”

Genius plucks his cell phone from his hip. “No problem, I’ll just – .”

His phone fails to beep. He shakes it, taps buttons, checks it’s weight.

“Problem?” Amy asks.

“BIG problem.” He pries open the battery lid. He shows Amy the empty battery section. “That was a neat trick Carlos pulled.”

“When he borrowed it just before we left the hotel,” Amy realizes. “And me without mine.”

“A firearm is not a good thing to have when you’re stranded in the jungle?”

Genius turns to reveal her the grip. “Ah,” Amy notes. “Biometric lock. Can you ‘adjust’ it.”

“Nope. And neither could Carlos, so I wonder why he kept it.”

“Its not his?”

After a moment it lands with a distant ‘thwack’.

“Did you hear that?” Amy asks.

“Pegged that one pretty good, didn’t I,” Genius confesses with a rueful smile.

“No. I mean that other sound. I heard something else while I was listening for the gun to hit.”

They listen. After a moment Genius nods. “Yeah. I hear it. Sounds like ….”

“Running water. A river.”

“Right. Stay close, and stay on your toes.”

—

“A river at our backs would be nice,” Genius muses.

“But …?”

“I can’t swim.”

“What?”

“I can’t swim.” He looks at Amy. “And don’t make a big deal about it, okay?”

“I won’t. Its just that its kind of refreshing to find something you’re not an expert at.”

“The illusion of my perfection shattered. I’m sorry.”

“I never thought you were perfect.”

“With the situation we’re in, Goddess, you ought to be stroking my ego.”

“Just as long as it’s the only thing of your’s I have to stroke.”

Amy follows his gaze. “I believe that is a bridge, yes.”

—

“Is the fact there are no safety rails a bad sign?”

“Don’t let it worry you. We’re not driving across. The jeep goes into the river.”

“I see. You know, its really fascinating, how your mind works.”

“Thank you.”

“I’m not sure I meant that as a compliment.”

Amy wonders aloud, “Why do I get the feeling you’ve done this before?”

“Well, they don’t get as many compliments as my legs, but I like them.”

Genius shakes his head and chuckles. “That’s what I get for asking an imprecise question that can be used as a straight line. I mean ….”

“I know what you mean,” Amy laughs. She looks for a place to set the photographers carry-all down, then readies herself at the jeep’s bumper. “Say when.”

“There she goes!”

As Genius guides her toward the bridge Amy’s eyes clear enough for her to see the camouflaged top of the jeep bounding downstream.

“Thanks,” she says, and hands Genius back his handkerchief.

Genius raises a hand for silence, then points to the far end of the bridge. Amy peers around and follows his pointing finger.

Four tall, bronzed Indians, wearing only loin cloths, block the end of the bridge. They adopt identical poses, crouching slightly, one foot in front of the other, blowpipes ready at their lips.

TO BE CONTINUED

EPISODE 6

2009-09-02T20:07:00.001-07:00

“We really should get out of this room,” Genius tells Amy Lindsay. He anxiously scans the office. “But there are guards at the door who will likely slow us up, and I don’t want to get caught out in the hallway, when that happens!”

“When what happens?”

“When the bomb detonates.”

“What bomb?”

“The bomb set to blow up the shipment of bird flu that Captain Valdez thought he’d bought in secret on the black market.” He checks the wall shared by the room
where Amy had been held captive. “I’d really like to have at least another wall between us and the bomb when it goes off. It’s in the next room. Two bombs, actually,” he amends. “One set to blow open the crates and expose the remaining vials, then another bomb set to destroy them. Going to make quite a mess.”

“Set to go off when?”

As a beeping erupts from his watch, Genius repeats, “Set to go off when? In less than sixty seconds.

With exasperation Amy asks, “Why didn’t you say so in the beginning?” She steps over Valdez, quickly finds a small niche in the wall that opens the secret spring loaded door leading to the adjoining room. “You want another wall? Will this one do?”

Genius grins. “You are a goddess.” He steps toward the door, then pauses to turn and spit on the unconscious body of Valdez. “No one’s that good an actress, huh? You son of a - ”
Amy shoves him down toward the trick door. “I keep forgetting fan is short for fanatic.”

“He’s going on The List,” Genius insists, referring to the list of critics and others who the Alcomist Club felt showed her insufficient homage. While never quite precise about what evil was to befall those on The List, the ‘bad luck’ suffered by those on it defied statistical probability.

Even before Amy clears the closet Genius is pushing at the room’s single window. “Nailed from the outside,” he announces, joining her beside the bed. He consults his still beeping watch.

“The bed!” Amy realizes. “Get under the bed.”

“Right,” Genius starts bending, then straightens and smiles wide.

“What?”

“Of all the commands I dreamed of you giving me concerning a bed, getting under one was never one of them.”

Eyes rolling, Amy grabs his arm and pushes him toward the floor. “I’m sure its not the first time a married woman has said this to you, but: Quick! Get under the bed!” As he complies, she grabs the mattress and wedges it under the bed. “Will this help protect us?”

“Couldn’t hurt,” Genius says, and they struggle to wrap it around themselves.

He chuckles and notes, “Good thing this is a Cheating Wife bed.”

“A Cheating Wife bed?”

“Lots of room for a lover to hide when hubby comes home early.”

“You sound like an expert.”

“No comment.”

Amy shakes her head as much as their cramped position allows. “There is no way Louisa was too weird for you. No way.”

The watch beeps and whines.

A distant ‘THARUMPH’ precedes a slight bit of shaking. As the explosions erupt, Amy stares with disappointed. “That wasn’t so -.”

“Wait for it.”

A protective arm around Amy’s neck draws her face close to Genius’ heaving chest.

The world bellows and crashes in on them.

—

A coughing sound scratches Amy’s ears. After a moment, she realizes these sounds are her coughs. She blinks against a swirl of smoke and dust and fans her
hands to shoo the dust and smoke from her face.

She realizes her hands should be hitting Genius. A rush of dust into her throat chokes off an attempt to call out his name.

She barely registers the sensation of movement. Through the dust, a hand has appeared to pull away the mattress. She recognizes the OBG watch on the wrist of Genius. Amy snakes after the mattress. Once clear of the bed, hands lift her and beat her back purple. Amy catches her breath and pushes away the well-meaning hands.

Amy squints through the settling dust and dissipating smoke. Two of the room’s walls stand intact, the north and south. But the east and west walls display massive holes. The blast has come through the office next door, and above through their hiding place. In the direction of the office, she sees straight through to four or five rooms, almost the entire length of building. The furthest wall remains intact, to a cafeteria it appears, as bodies and tables lay in jumbled heaps.

Captain Ramirez and Valdez are no where to be seen, but, as she turns, Amy sees the large oak office desk, having punched a massive hole in the wall, laying upside down in a large, open courtyard.

Genius catches her attention by gently grasping her chin and turning it to face him. “Are you okay?”

“What?”

Genius holds up a hand to quiet her. In quick pantomime, he conveys that the blast has affected their hearing. Covering her ears Amy mouths: ‘For how long?’ Genius shrugs. With further pantomime he indicates she should walk with her hands behind her back, and he would act like a guard escorting her.

Stepping through the hole they see a large hacienda to the left. Their adobe building is part of a ‘U’ shaped complex that looks surrounded by desert.

With wrists held behind her and a guiding hand from Genius on her arm, they stroll out of the compound. A fifteen minute walk ends where Genius has stashed his copter.

—

Two hours later finds them in a hotel in Acapulco, fed, cleaned, and with Amy planting herself in front of Genius and demanding to know what was REALLY going on.

“Okay, Goddess,” he agrees. “Fair is fair. Give me a moment.” Closing the laptop he had been busily typing on at the coffee table since their arrival, Genius stands from the couch and walks over to the balcony to stare out the balcony’s glass door at the lights of Acapulco.

After a minute he returns and waves for Amy to take his place on the couch. He remains standing.

“The Hollywood Operational Team branch of the Bureau for Anti-Terrorism Bounty Enforcement is almost strictly a ‘courier’ operation. Very few are asked to become field agents, and even fewer become one.”

“I was beginning to suspect that.”

“It isn’t from a lack of talent or skill. We’re just not willing to risk the emotional damage to the country if some of their favorite entertainers start getting killed off.” He spreads his hands. “On the other hand, there is a war on terror going on, not just radicalized Muslims in the Middle East, but others all over the world. And, we can’t ignore the assets that actors with certain skills can bring to that fight.”

“Like me?” Amy asks, hoping to sound confident, not merely hopeful.

Genius sighs. “That’s what we’ve been trying to determine. So far -.”

“Okay, wait. Who’s ‘we’?”

“B.A.B.E. and the Alcomist Club.”

“So, the Alcomist Club is really not a fan club after all?”

“Oh, no. We definitely are a fan club. You are Our Blonde Goddess. In fact, you were that long before we hooked up with B.A.B.E. When we began to talk among ourselves at the forum, we discovered common interests, occupations, backgrounds.”

“Like backgrounds in intelligence work? You and Captain Ramirez seemed to have encountered one another before.”

“A couple of times, actually.” Genius recalls with a smile. “But I can neither confirm nor deny that.”

“One of those many alphabet agencies in our government?”

“I repeat my previous answer.”

Amy relents. “Okay, I won’t push it.”

“Like I said, few have been chosen. For security reasons, I can’t tell you which ones actually made the cut.”

“Understood.”

“But I can tell you there is a ‘process’. It includes assignments both real and staged. It involves evaluations and reports and recommendations. You’re not supposed to know this. Not as its happening, and not that it ever took place if you eventually fail.”

“But you’re telling me now. Why?”

“Because we’ve come across an extraordinary bit of information that’s more than a bit puzzling. And, frankly, scares the hell out of me.”

“That a South American assassination cult called the Brotherhood of the Blood Orchid has been hired to kill me?”

“Your insights serve you well, young Jedi,” Genius confirms with a grim smile. “Where did you hear about the B.B.O.?”

“Captain Ramirez.”

Genius curses and rubs his forehead as if battling a sudden headache. “What did he tell you about them?”

“Nothing. Except, they didn’t want me dead any more.”

“How would he know that?”

“Someone named General Fu.”

With his head suddenly lulling back like his neck was made of rubber, Genius whispers just loud enough for her to hear: “Sweet, Jesus, what have we gotten you into?”

Genius retreats to stare out the balcony’s sliding glass door. His reflection shows him gnawing at a thumb nail, a position her holds for several minutes. Just as Amy is about to ask him to explain who General Fu is, Genius spins and strides resolutely to stand before her.

“The Department of Homeland Security gets all kinds of terrorism tips. They handle the most plausible ones, and hand off the rest to groups like the Alcomist Club - organizations with shared interests like celebrity fan clubs, T.V. and movie fans.”

“Like Trekkies?”

Genius smiles. “We’ll, they’re a little out there for our needs, but there are SF writer’s fan clubs that are invaluable. We have a nice little information network, kind of like the Baker Street Irregulars Sherlock Holmes had. So, when something O.B.P. passes across a desk at the DHS, a call goes out to us.”

“O.B.P.?”

“Odd But Plausible,” he translates. “That’s the designation the DHS gave an anonymous warning about a renegade Chinese general living in South America planning to infect Illegals crossing the US border with the Bird Flu as a way to start an epidemic in America.”

Again things click in Amy’s mind. The mention at the compound of vaccines. And coyotes. Not the animal. Rather, the men hired to guide Illegals across the border. She realizes, “Captain Ramirez sent off a bus load of coyotes!”

Genius raises a cautioning hand and nods toward his laptop. “I’ve been checking that out. The bus was stopped before it reached the border. They’re all in Quarantine. The last bit of information I needed, that confirmed that, came at almost the same instant of your kidnaping.”

“That’s how you were able to get to where I was so fast.”

“It was quite a shock, tracking the homer in your trick bra and finding you were taken to where we had an imminent mission planned.”

Amy unconsciously toys with the top button of her blouse. “Then there wasn’t some ‘additional information’ waiting for me to pick up at the airport and deliver to Area 51?”

“Nothing important. We just needed to make sure your were wearing one of those special bras so we could track you. Just in case.”

“I don’t think I like the idea of you being able to track me wherever I go.”

“Its just for missions, I swear. Anyway, because it was my contact who confirmed the plausibility of the General Fu scenario, and because I’d had dealings with ‘Ramirez’ before, I was able to exercise ‘executive privilege’ and take for myself an assignment first meant to be just a demolition mission, that suddenly became a rescue mission, too.”

“I’m just an office wonk. I don’t do field work,” Amy recalls.

Genius grins. “I make an occasional exception. When the situation warrants it.” His smile fades. “Ramirez has been taken out, his supply of flu - the ‘vaccine’ he was giving the coyotes and their clients under the guise of keeping them healthy for their trip across the border - has been destroyed, and his men are in Quarantine. Unfortunately, one ’situation’ remains.”

“And that is?” Amy asks, though already uneasy at the answer she senses will be coming.

“How all of this, and some renegade Chi-Com general, ties in with an order, later rescinded, for the Brotherhood of the Blood Orchid to assassinate you?”

“I really, really don’t know why.”

“Neither do I. That’s why I’m heading down to South America to meet personally with the contact who developed the information on General Fu. And, I’m making another ‘executive’ decision. You are not leaving my side until we find out what the hell is going on here.”

“Meaning …?”

“Congratulations, Goddess, you are now an official H.O.T.B.A.B.E. Field Agent.”

Amy smiles, but quickly dimming the triumph triggering that famous smile’s usual luster is and remembers that damned old axiom: Be careful what you wish, you just might get it.

TO BE CONTINUED

EPISODE 5

2009-09-02T20:06:00.002-07:00

Shrieking shattering glass interrupts Vernon, the driver of the car provided Amy Lindsay by the Alcomist Club. His big hands fly up for protection from splinters of glass that cascades in through the driver’s side window. “What the …?”

The splat of flesh on flesh follows a hissing ‘phtt’ sound, as Vernon slaps his neck. His body falls across the front seat toward the passenger seat.

Amy thumbs the release latch on her seatbelt and lunges for Vernon. A second hissing ‘phtt’ barely registers in her mind before a stinging sensation spreads just below and behind her left ear. Olive-skinned arms yank open Vernon’s door, drag him from the car.

Falling, Amy hears her door squeak open. Darkness settles over her.

—

Awareness flows over Amy Lindsay in waves. First, distant, persistent clicking hums. Ceiling fan, something deep in her brain informs her. She feels the weight of clothes on her body, and the stiff scratch of a wool blanket through them against her back, and a thick, lumpy mattress beneath. She conducts a mental checklist of her physical condition. Nothing broken or bruised, an irritating itch below and behind her left ear, a slight headache. Slight, imperceptible shifts of her body signal: No bindings.

Eyes inching open, she confirms: a rickety ceiling fan. Dust covered blades wobble above an exposed light bulb: either burned out or turned off. Sunlight slashes across her legs through a single unwashed window. The angle and intensity of the light suggest the approach of sunset.

What day is this? A slight emptiness in her stomach suggests only a few hours without food. The thought of food awakens her sense of smell. From somewhere drifts in something of a definite Hispanic scent and flavor. Tinny, distant Tejano music, with horns providing the vocals, tickle her ears.

Mexico?

Moving eyes only, Amy checks the layout of the room. To her immediate left the bed abuts a wall covered with rugs and Mexican artifacts. To the right the small room opens up just enough to hold a small, ancient bureau with a cracked mirror, a wooden chair with its back rest missing and a door. Craning, Amy spies a second door sharing the same wall with the huge bed’s massive, wooden headboard.

With slow, deliberate movements she eases her legs off the side of the bed with a minimum of mattress squeaks. Her feet barely reach the bare wooden floor. Light shows under one door, but not the other. Amy checks the latter door first, confirming it leads to a tiny closet: empty, lacking even hangers on the rod. Listening at the other door she hears only the muted Tejano music. She tests the handle. Locked.

Noise draws her back to the closet. From the next room comes the closing of a nearby door, then the scrape of a chair on a floor. Then the squeak of someone settling in a wheeled desk chair. Amy eases into the closet and drops to a knee to listen.

Two male voices, both speaking Spanish, distinguish themselves apart. Between her rusty Spanish and the poor acoustics of the closet, most of the conversation eludes Amy, though she separates the tones of a Leader and an Underling. Leader complains about these last minute meetings; they always cause delays. The Underling offers obsequious and placating responses.

The fanfare ‘ta-da’ of a Windows OS starting up sings out. After a moment Amy hears the electronic beeps and buzzes of a dial-up modem handshake.

The Leader hopes there will be no more delays, and adds something about restless coyotes. The Underling mentions a vaccine, but the distracted tone his words makes them hard to follow.

A third voice speaks with the muted quality of coming from a computer speaker. A teleconference, Amy realizes. Amy strains to hear, but again is left to decipher tones. After a moment it becomes clearer to her: The voice from the computer is speaking Chinese. The Underling translates it into Spanish for the Leader, then the Leader’s Spanish into Chinese for the third member of the conference.

Amy catches one thing from the low snatches of Spanish. The Chinese companion is called ‘General Fu’ by the Underling. The deferential tones used by the Leader and the Underling tell her General Fu is leader to both.

The leader grows jubilant as the meeting ends. In Spanish he exclaims, “Finally! The ‘go’ signal. Order the coyotes onto the bus!”

The wheels of a desk chair squeal in tune with the legs of a regular chair scratching along the floor. The voices approach the section of the wall the other room shares directly beside Amy’s hiding place.

“Si, Captain! What about the girl?”

“Check on her. If she needs to be quieted, do so. But keep her safe.”

“Why did General Fu change the orders now to not kill her?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps he has discovered an American actress is more valuable to us alive than dead.”

“Ransom, perhaps?”

“Perhaps. Just be sure -.”

The jingling of a telephone cuts the Leader off. “Get that.”

The Underling’s low tone grows too animated to follow. The received slams down. “We have captured a spy.”

“What?”

“The guards are bringing him to us. It is an American. You won’t believe who!”

“Who!”

As Amy leans forward to catch the spy’s name the wall suddenly gives way, swing open like a door. She tumbles tumbled into the next room, tumbling head first toward two men dressed in military style uniforms.

The taller of the two, a beefy but solidly built man, grabs the door as it starts to spring shut. Amy sprawls at his feet. His surprise is brief, giving way to a broad smile. He allows the trick door to swing shut.

“Ah, our lovely American guest,” he says in English with barely a hint of an accent. He waves back the Underling, who has drawn a .45. “Please, Javier. She is our honored guest. Save the hostility for the uninvited spy.” He extends a hand to help Amy stand. Javier hesitantly holsters his revolver and steps back.

The room resembles a typical office, large oak desk with plush desk chair, computer work station, two guest chairs fronting the desk. No windows, only one door.

Both men wear uniforms, cleaned and sharpened with military precision. The name above the lackey’s pocket reads: Valdez. The leader’s says: Ramirez. Fairly common Hispanic names, Amy notes, and wonders if they are fake.

“This is indeed a great honor, Miss Lindsay,” a broadly smiling Ramirez says. “I am a big fan. A pity my DVD collection is at home. I would have you sign them.”

“Well, let’s head out there. I’ve got no pressing engagements.”

The big man’s laugh fills the room. He nods for Amy to take a seat as he circles around to sit behind the desk. “I’m afraid my orders are to keep you here. For the time being.”

Amy settles into a chair. “I don’t have any pictures with me to autograph.” She notes how Valdez takes up a position directly behind her and gauges distances, runs escape scenarios through her mind. “Being kidnapped, you know.”

“Perhaps only a temporary inconvenience.”

“Until General Fu decides otherwise?” Amy wonders aloud in a tone questioning Ramirez’s authority.

His smile vanishes as if she has slapped him. Too far? Amy wonders.

“It is best, Miss Lindsay, if you do know something, you play ignorant. General Fu doesn’t have the control here he might think, and not irritating me may decide if you ’slip through our fingers’ and escape, or if you are shot attempting to escape.” He bends forward. “So be very nice to us. Your well being depends on that.”

Valdez says, “We’ve seen the nice things you can do for men.” Amy figures there is no need to turn, she can visualize the leer on the man’s face.

Oddly, this irritates Ramirez. “Javier, how many times have I told you? The sex is simulated. It is all acting.” He looks to Amy. “Tell him, its acting.”

Over her should Amy tells Javier: “Its acting.” She looks back at Ramirez. “I don’t think he believes me.”

Ramirez waves it off as of no consequence. “So tell me, pretty one, what have you done that has the Brotherhood of the Blood Orchid after you?”

“I really have no idea.”

“Come now, you can’t -.”

Marching boots filling the hallway cut him off. The marching ends. Three loud raps explode from the door. “Entrar!” Ramirez shouts.

A man stumbles into the room, just catching himself on the empty chair beside Amy. As he straightens, despite all her acting and H.O.T.B.A.B.E. training, Amy’s draw still drops.

“Hey, Goddess,” Genius says with a genial smile. “Fancy meeting you here.”

—

“How -?” Amy begins, but a quick shake of the head from Genius silences her.

Without waiting for an invitation, Genius jumps into the other chair and smooths out the ill-fitting uniform he wears, a duplicate of the others, bearing a name patch that read: Gomez.. He scans the desk, then settles back, puzzled. “No cigars, Captain …” he squints at Ramirez’s name patch, “… Ramirez, is it now? You gave up smoking when you adopted a new name?” He pretends to suddenly recall something. “Oh, I forgot. That little smuggling deal you had going with Castro kind of … blew up … a while back , didn’t it?”

Captain Ramirez chuckles and waggles a finger. “I always thought that had the feel of one of your little operations, Guillermo. Were you there?”

“Oh, no. I just planned it. I’m an office wonk now. I don’t do field work.”

“But you’re here now?”

“I make an occasional exception.” Genius glances at Amy, then back at Ramirez. “When the situation warrants it.”

“Ah, yes. Don Quixote, come to rescue the damsel. Where’s your white steed?”

Genius shrugs. “In that you’re going to let us just walk right out of here, I didn’t bring one.”

Captain Ramirez strokes his chin. “And why will I let you just walk right out of here?”

“Because, you little fish in a little pond, harm one hair on Miss Lindsay’s head, and you’ll have crashing down on you an organization who’s depth and power your feeble mind cannot possibly comprehend.”

The Captain’s face clouds up. “Be careful, My Old Friend. My benevolence can extend to Miss Lindsay, but not to you. You have been captured wearing the uniform of your enemy. You may meet the usual fate of a spy.”

From behind Valdez sneers, “We are not afraid of B.A.B.E. Everyone knows of the budget cuts. It has no fangs.”

“And, H.O.T.? That little collection of actors playing at spy. A joke. No offense, Miss Lindsay,” Captain Ramirez adds. “No, you’ll have to do better than that.”

“How about this? For our freedom, Miss Lindsay is prepared to perform a sex act on you.”

The Captain almost falls from his chair. “She is?”

Amy almost falls out of her chair. “I am?!?”

The Captain chuckles and eases back. “I’d almost forgotten that odd sense of humor you have.”

“I’m serious,” Genius continues. “Not only is she willing to perform with, or on, you the sex act of your choice, she is willing to have it filmed.”

“She is?”

“I’m what?!?”

Valdez laughs. “I knew it was real! No one’s that good an actress.”

“Your security here isn’t all that good,” Genius continues. “I wandered about for almost an hour before I let myself be caught. I saw those video cameras you’ve been using to film your coyotes during training.” He nods toward Valdez. “Get your little lackey here to get one and have him come back and film the whole thing. A little souvenir to show all your friends.” He lifts his brows at Amy. “You wouldn’t mind doing them both, would you?”

“Maybe you should do them both?” She raises her hand to slap Genius, then catches a slight twitch in his eyebrow that let’s her know he has a plan.

Even though she’s about to drop her hand, Genius grabs it. “Hey, sweetheart. You wanted to get into the espionage business. You knew you’d face a situation like this. You said you’d be able to handle it.”

“Don’t call me ’sweetheart’,” Amy replies through grit teeth. She yanks free her wrist and looks at Captain Ramirez. “You’ll let us go if I do this?”

“I told you. I have the power. You could ’slip through our fingers’.”

Genius jumps to his feet. “It’s settled then.”

Lost in trying to figure out just where this was all leading, Amy misses exactly what move Genius uses to send the lackey, Valdez, crumpling to the floor. Surprised for an instant, Captain Ramirez struggles to stand, the delay giving Amy time to jump up, grab her chair, and peg it across the desk. It catches Ramirez square on the forehead. He bounces back into his chair, then slides to the floor, still.

Genius sets down his own chair. “Well done, Goddess.” He checks his watch and curses. “We don’t have much time.”

As he reaches for her arm Amy pulls away. “What in the world is going on here? And where is here? And how did you get here?”

Genius chaffs at the delay. “Okay. Long story short. There’s a homer in your bra. Vernon had one in his blackberry. When your signals split apart before you reached the airport, we knew something was wrong. We found the car parked near the crossroads where they grabbed you, and Vernon nearby in the bushes. We already had a chopper on stand-by for a mission here, and here is
where I am.”

“Vernon!” Amy remembers. She touches the welt on her neck. “How is he?”

“Going to make it. Tough guy. More on that later. Didn’t have time to organize a more proper rescue, so they sent me.” He steps over Valdez on his way to the door. He cracks it, looks out, then closes it quickly. He checks his watch and curses again.

“You already had a mission planned here? Why?”

“Later,” comes his distracted reply as he looks around the office, and again checks his watch.

“Why do you keep checking your watch? And don’t say ‘Later.’.”

Instead of not saying ‘Later.’, Genius ignores the question. He steps back over Valdez and makes a slow three-sixty pirouette looking for … what?

Amy grabs his shoulders and gives a hard shake to capture his attention. “What is it?”

“We really should get out of this room. But there are guards at the door who will likely slow us up, and I don’t want to get caught out in the hallway when it happens.”

“When what happens?”

“When the bomb goes off.”

“What bomb?”

“The one I set to blow up the shipment of bird flu Captain Valdez thought he’d bought in secret on the black market.” He checks the wall shared by the room where Amy had been held captive. “I’d really like to have at least another wall between us and the bomb when it goes off. It’s in the next room. Two bombs, actually,” he amends. “One set to blow open the crates and expose the
remaining vials, then another bomb set to destroy them. Going to make quite a mess.”

“Set to go off when?”

As a beeping erupts from his watch, Genius repeats, “Set to go off when? In less than sixty seconds.”

TO BE CONTINUED

EPISODE 4

2009-09-02T20:06:00.001-07:00

Genius, the short, stocky, bespeckled founder of the Alcomist Club, stands at the opposite end of the conference table from Amy Lindsay. A wide grin splits his bearded face.

Amy raises a quieting hand. “You don’t have to say a word. I know what this is going to cost me. I’ve come prepared.”

Tongue flicking across his lips, Genius leans forward in eager anticipation, as Amy gives in to the inevitable and reaches for the top button of her blouse.

After loosening the top button, Amy reaches inside and draws out the tiny sliver of microfilm secreted in that special courier compartment along the seam of her bra.

Genius hurries around the small conference table and accepts the sliver with reverent care, draws his cell phone from its hip holster, and slides the film into a small slot. After a moment’s fiddling and small pictures flashing on the screen, his face breaks into a wide grin.

“Timegate vidcaps. The dance hall girl outfit. One of my favorites.”

“I knew you’d like them,” Amy smiles. She quickly settles back into her grim demeanor. “Not to be pushy, and as much as H.O.T.B.A.B.E. appreciates your work on this project, Authority would like to know when we can do some field testing with your magic cell phone, there. With everyone and her mother able to track cell to cell messages, he’d like to get back to the old-fashioned method of couriered microdot messages.”

“Soon,” Genius distantly mumbles, drooling over the vid caps. “They seem undamaged by the journey.”

“Not that I don’t appreciate it,” she goes on, “But, why the insistence on using my movies for these tests? Authority wants to know how this will work on spying missions, when the video will be made in less than perfect conditions. You’ve seen every movie three dozen times.”

Genius deactivates his cell and returns it to the case on his hip. “Because a thing of beauty is a joy, forever.”

“Why do I get this chill up and down my spine, every time you quote Keats?”

“Could it be love?”

“Try stark raving terror. You only quote The Poets when its bad news.” She nods towards the folders stacked neatly at the end of the conference table. “What you got for me?”

“You mean beside a massive, raging – ”

“Don’t say it!”

“I was going to say ‘headache.’”

“Sure you were.”

Genius waves for her to sit. “Seriously,” he chirps, massaging his neck. “I’ve been up, all night, web surfing, picking the brains of some fellow insomniacs on your behalf.” He stops to take a sip of something dark and hot from his OBG mug. “And I’m not happy with what I found.”

“The dead guy in the little sports car? A former member of a Chinese gang, the Red Dragon Tail. His name was Tony Wen.”

“That’s a pretty quick ID, considering the condition he was in last time I saw him.”

“That’s because his particulars, including dental records, were in both the Gang Database, and the Terrorism Watch List.”

“You said ‘former’ gang member.”

“That was up until about six months ago. Since then he’s been linked with smugglers.”

“Drugs?”

“People and weapons. Across the Mexican border. That’s how he came to the attention of the Department of Homeland Security and the INS. Not to mention the DEA.”

Amy nods. That connection was brought up by Authority, back at HQ. “And why might he want Bobby Chung dead? And how did he kill him?”

“Why? Working on it. How? A very rare form of poison,” Genius replies. “I’m not going to embarrass myself – ”

“Why start now?” Amy asks with a grin.

” – by trying to pronounce its scientific name,” Genius plowed onward. “But its an extract from a flower found only in the jungles of South America, commonly, and incorrectly, referred to as the Blood Orchid.”

“So, we got an ex-member of a Chinese street gang killing an INS agent working jointly with Homeland Security investigating a Chinese connection to arms and people smuggling across the Mexican border, using a poison extracted from a rare South American plant?”

“More than rare, a plant thought extinct for over a hundred years.”

“It was pretty potent last night.”

“Which has got my friends at Area 51 a bit … interested.”

Amy wrinkles her nose. “I smell a road trip to Nevada that doesn’t include a side trip to Las Vegas.”

“What with the attempt on you this morning, we think a few days hiding away at Groom Lake might be advisable. We’ve got an odd chemical signature from Bobby Chang’s blood they need to look at. That poison was never known to be strong enough to kill humans, just stun small animals. There might be some kind of genetic modification involved here.”

“And you need a courier?”

“Its what you do best.”

“Shows what you know,” she replied with a sly grin. She gave an exaggerated sigh. “That’s all I am to you, isn’t it? A courier? Just a trick bra.”

“Other than to say what’s in the bra is a treat, not a trick, I’m not touching that.”

“Damn right, you’re not.” She flashes her trademarked heart-stopping smile, then sighs reluctantly while giving in to the inevitable. “Okay. I’m off to Nevada. Is there anything I can bring back for you?”

“Just a five-foot-eight, blonde, blue-eyed Goddess in excellent health.”

“You say the sweetest things some times.”

“And an eighteen year-old showgirl with a nymphomaniacal attraction to short, older, bearded, near-sighted men.”

“And then, you go and ruin it with a joke.”

“Who’s joking? I’m a lonely man.”

“What about that girl from my condo I set you up with last month?”

“Louisa? Nice. Pretty. Smart. Great sense of humor. One little flaw.”

“All that good stuff and you couldn’t overlook one little flaw?”

“I can’t when that flaw involves her breaking out an electric egg beater and a jar of Paul Newman marinara sauce three hours after dinner.”

“Was that the scream I heard a couple nights ago?”

“It was.”

“You’ve got a pretty good set of pipes.”

“Especially when a certain other ‘pipe’ is threatened.”

—

Amy returns to her condo to pack for the trip and brief stay at Groom Lake and recalls the excitement of her first visit, and the crushing disappointment at finding, not a base with exotic ET aircraft and alien corpses, but a rather run of the mill aviation and chemical warfare research base. Still, with the warm days, she could work on her tan, and during the chilly nights catch up on the endless pile of scripts being sent her way.

While others did the REAL work, she thinks with more than a bit of irritation. Sweet as Genius might put it, she really is nothing more than a pretty face and a trick bra (among other bits of lingerie) in the eyes of H.O.T.B.A.B.E. When are they going to let her prove herself with a serious assignment? They put her through extensive training in all those mysterious ‘vacations’ and ‘photo shoots’ that keep her, much to the annoyance of her fans, away from her fan forum,
so often. When are they going to let her do some real field work?

A voice in the back of Amy’s mind warns her: Be careful what you wish for….

She tells the voice where to go.

As she packs, her sense her sour mood, and weave in and out of her ankles, trilling and meowing their concern and commiseration.

She finishes packing when her cell sings out “She Blinded Me With Science”; the ring tone for Genius.

“Just a head’s up, Goddess,” the phone blares into Amy’s delicate ear. “They’ll be a package waiting for you when you arrive at the airport.”

“The usual locker at Hanger 13?” She tries to hide her disappointment. For a moment, she had hoped for a change of plans. Same old same old: Messenger girl.

“The usual,” he confirms. “So wear one of your trick bras.”

“Already done.”

“No need to prove it; I’ll take your word for that.”

“Dame right you will.”

“Oh. And in about five minutes a very large man named Vernon will be knocking at your door. He’ll be driving you to the airport. Compliments of the Alcomist Club.”

“That’s sweet of you guys, but it isn’t necessary.”

“Yes. It is,” Genius replies, his tone brooking no argument. “He’ll use the Chambermaid recognition code.”

Amy senses the tightness in Genius’ tone. “Is something wrong?”

“Could be,” Genius replies and leaves it there.

“Well?”

“Some new information on those goons that tried to grab you this morning.”

“What about them?”

“We got something off one of the corpses; the one who strangled himself rather then be taken alive. A tattoo, high in the middle of the left shoulder blade.”

“What kind of tattoo?”

“A skull above a blood red orchid. We’re still working on what it means, exactly,” Genius continues. “I’ll have to get back to you on that. But when there’s a skull and something red, its usually bad news. Bye”

And when there’s bad news, the pretty little actress gets tucked away where its nice and safe, Amy adds in bitter thought as she deactivates her cell.

A sharp knock on her door snapps Amy back to the moment, and she edges gingerly toward the door and stops several safe feet away.

“Who is it?”

“My name is Vernon. I’m here to pick up J.J.”

“J.J. is at her Aunt Felicity’s mansion.”

“I thought her Aunt Felicity was dead.”

“No, just away on her honeymoon.”

“Same thing,” the voice responds.

The contact ritual completes and, in order, Amy opens the door. Vernon turns out to be a hulking, expansive man who looks fit enough to play linebacker for the Longhorns. On the brisk walk down to his car, he carries only her largest bag, while keeping his other hand tucked into the pocket of his suit jacket. After a first quick glance at her, he does not look at Amy, instead his eyes swivel constantly at their surroundings, in the condo halls and outside in the parking lot, as they load the trunk of the Alcomist’s nondescript sedan.

Once the car is on its way, Vernon relaxes. A touch. “Don’t worry, Miss Lindsay. When I drive, my passengers get where they need to be.”

“I’m not worried,” she lies. “Did they tell you why I should be worried?”

“No, Ma’am. What they did tell me was that if I didn’t get you safely to the airport. Then, I’d better be able to walk on water because I’d have to start walking to Japan if I didn’t want them to find me.”

That makes Amy smile, which makes Vernon smile as he glances at her in the rear view mirror. “Are you a fan, Vernon?”

“I wasn’t,” he confesses. “But, now that I’ve seen that smile, I’ve got no choice, do I?”

The car eases to a stop at a traffic light. A grin flows across Vernon’s face. “Hey, if you don’t mind, I’d like to – .”

The shriek of shattering glass interrupts. Vernon throws up an arm to protect himself from splinters of glass spewing in from the driver’s side window. “What the…?!?”

A hissing ‘phtt’ sound immediately follows the slap of flesh on flesh, as Vernon’s hand flies to the side of his neck. His body twists and falls towards the steering wheel.

Amy thumbs the release on her seatbelt and reaches forward to grab Vernon. She hears a second hissing ‘phtt’, and feels a stinging sensation just below and behind her left ear.

Vernon’s door opens and a pair of olive-skinned arms yanks him out of the car.

From a thousand miles away, Amy’s door can be heard opening. Hands push her into the seat.

Darkness smothers Amy Lindsay and carries her off to oblivion.

TO BE CONTINUED!

EPISODE 3

2009-09-02T20:05:00.001-07:00

The three leering kidnappers, evil intent on their minds, saunter toward Amy Lindsay.

Amy shifts in her Porsche, chaffing at the limited mobility of the handcuffs securing her to the steering wheel. Just a little more … Yes! She squeezes the door’s release latch, disengaging it, but not opening it. She sets her foot flat against the door, ready to kick it into the men, as they come into range. A long shot, and she has to move fast, but with a bit of luck she can incapacitate all three men, and perhaps grab – .

A gunshot rings out, startling her.

Even more startled is one of the approaching men; the middle of the trio. A puzzled expression wipes the leer from his face. He spits a trickle of blood, then, coughs up a red flood and topples like a felled tree, hitting the road and sending up spirals of dust. Beyond him, the first kidnapper shots in the middle of the argument, totters on his knees, a red stain growing on his chest and a smoking .38 clutched in his wavering hand.

The other two kidnappers straighten from their instinctive duck and spin to face the shooter. The man that did the original shooting claws at the pistol now shoved in his belt, struggling a moment before clearing it. That instant of delay gives the wounded kidnapper time to steady his aim and fire. Two shots explodes as one. Both men hit the dirt, still.

The remaining kidnapper freezes, stunned. But, only for a moment! He dives for the pistol that has twirled off into the ditch and whirled to train it on Amy. Seeing her still handcuffed and in the car, he relaxes. A bit!

In Spanish, he told Amy, “I would not have let them rape you, Amy Lindsay” with an earnestness that made her believe him, though he pronounced her name: Ah-ma Lin-say.

Keeping Amy covered, he edges away to check the bodies. From the leader, he forages through the pockets for the handcuff keys. He retrieves the .38 and tucks it into his belt, he stops ten feet from the Porsche, and tosses Amy the keys.

In Spanish, he orders her to release herself from the wheel, then, reattaches the cuffs to her wrists. When she pretends not to understand his pantomime, he pointed the gun at her to emphasize his point. Amy does as instructed, pretending to fumble with the keys and taking her time. She glances at the dashboard clock.

Rescue is at least seven minutes away.

She finishes locking her second wrist and tosses the keys to the kidnapper. He did not see the danger of letting her hands be cuffed in front of her body, as she hoped. He steps back and waves her to exit it the car. She stops out, staying slumped and huddled to give the impression of helplessness.

The trill of a cell phone fills the still air.

Amy recognizes her generic ring tone, coming from the dead leader. The startled kidnapper turns toward the sound. Though, he quickly realizes the mistake of taking his eyes off her, it’s the split second Amy needs. Her lithe body hampered only slightly by the cuffs, she delivers a perfectly timed spin kick that snaps the kidnapper’s wrist and sends the pistol flying. The man yelps and falls to his knee as he grabs his wrist. Amy’s second kick leaves him face down in the ditch.

Amy finds the keys to the cuffs, frees herself, and places the cuffs on the unconscious kidnapper. Her phone stops trilling by the time she retrieves it. A costume shop voicemail message acknowledges receipt of her payment for the ‘unusual rips and tears’ suffers by the Catwoman outfit she rented for a New Year’s Eve party.

A Chinook helicopter thunders over the small rise to hover over her before can punch in a call to HQ. Repelling lines spill out of an open hatch. Amy flashes the requisite ‘all clear’ hand signal, and the lines snake back into the ‘copter, as it eases away to find a landing pad.

The thunder of the chopper faded choking sounds makes Amy spin. And freeze! The last kidnapper regains consciousness and works the cuffs from behind his back. Exhibiting contortionist-like skill, he grasps his hands behind his head, so that the cuff’s chain tears into his neck, almost disappearing into him. Amy leaps forward to pry the hands apart. Before she could grasp the man’s wrists, he fell limp.

—

” … never regained consciousness, then?” Authority asks into his phone headset. From her seat across the sparse, uncluttered desk in the dimly-lit office, Amy can barely make out the shadowed profile of the mysterious man who runs H.O.T.B.A.B.E. “All right, keep me posted.” He tears off the headset and bounces it on the desktop.

“I take it we’re a long way from figuring this one out?” Amy asks.

“A very long way. We have their vehicles, and the weapons, but they’ve been sanitized. Tracing them will take time.”

“Which we don’t have?”

Authority sighes heavily. “I would really like to know as soon as possible who has the kind of influence over their people that one would find such an inventive and gruesome way to strangle himself, with a broken wrist, just to keep from being arrested and questioned.”

“So would I, seeing it was me they were trying to kill, or kidnap, or whatever.”

“We’re going over the cases you’ve worked. You’re still pretty deep undercover with us here at B.A.B.E.”

“Acting can be a cut throat business at times, but I don’t think I irritated anyone in the business enough to want me dead.”

Authority waves his hand dismissively and shakes his head. “Of course not. It may, or may not, be a question of someone coming after you personally.”

In the brief silence that follows, the implication hits Amy. Even if she were just a target of opportunity, this means a leak in the organization!

“And I don’t like this coming just hours after what happened to Bobby Chung,” Authority continues.

Amy recalls Bobby’s cryptic dying clue about the Mexican border; the kidnappers had spoken Spanish. “Could there be a connection? What was he working on?”

“He wasn’t one of our regulars,” Authority explains. “He was involved in a joint effort we were working on with the I.N.S.”

“An Immigration investigation working out of a Chinese restaurant?” Even before Authority answers the question, Amy understands. With the Chi-Coms getting cozy with every terrorist group in the Middle East, not to mention ‘legitimate’ anti-Western governments, a closer eye needs be kept on the Asian illegals coming across the Pacific.

“Chung’s clue about the Mexican border fits right in, especially since the Panama Canal is practically owned by the Chinese, and they run illegals up from there and through Mexico all the time. Not just Hispanics, but Chinese, and unfriendly Arabs.”

Amy snaps her fingers. “That’s it. That’s what’s been nagging at me. The Spanish accents of the kidnappers. Not Mexican. More Central, South American.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.”

Authority’s expression sours at that revelation. “That’s fast work, if someone’s already after you because of this Chung business. Don’t like it.”

“Can’t say I’m too happy about it myself.” The image of Bobby Chung’s rigid face and bulging eyes fills her mind. “Have they found out what killed him?”

“It was too exotic for our little lab,” Authority replies. “Damn budget cuts. We farmed it out to your friends at the Alcomist Club.” In the darkness, he activates the small light in his watch. “You’ll be meeting Genius there in two hours. He’ll brief you.”

Amy smiles. “Sometimes I think the only reason you recruited me was because I’ve got the smartest fan club in the world.”

Even through the shadows Amy can make out Authority’s smile. “You brought a few positive … qualities … of your own.”

—

The damage to her Porsche is minimal, and HQ’s resident mechanical expert, Cue, can have it running smoothly enough for Amy to drive it to her meeting with Genius at the Alcomist Club.

The Alcomist Club is a ‘gentleman’s retreat’ formed by members of Amy’s fan club. Housed in a renovated Victorian mansion on Sunset Boulevard, it networks with similar clubs, the world over, linking it instantly with experts on every conceivable subject, and makes it a valued resource for H.O.T.B.A.B.E.

As usual, the moment Amy enters the lounge, someone cries out “OBG in the House!”, and the dozen or so members currently in attendance drops what they’re doing, stands, places their right hands over their hearts, and recites:

Amy Lindsay, Our Blonde Goddess

Of all Creation she is hottest

We love to see her at the beach

To watch her walk on water

But mess with her and incur our wrath

For to us she is like a daughter

(And we don’t mean in that weird Woody Allen kind of way)

Amen.

“You guys,” she laughs. “Where’s Genius?”

As the members settle back down to the business of reading, card playing, or just dozing, Artist tosses a thumb over his shoulder at a side door leading to a small conference room. “And from what I heard about the information he’s got, you’re going to have to pay. Big Time.”

“Oh great,” Amy murmurs as she heads for the door. Genius always demands very unique forms of payment.

Genius, the short, stocky, be-speckled founder of the Alcomist Club, stands from the other end of the conference table, as she enters. A wide grin splits his bearded face.

Amy raises a quieting hand. “You don’t have to say a word,” she says. “I know what this is going to cost me. I’ve come prepared.”

Tongue flicking across his lips, Genius leans forward in eager anticipation, as Amy gives in to the inevitable and reaches for the top button of her blouse.

TO BE CONTINUED!

EPISODE 2

2009-09-02T20:04:00.000-07:00

Amy skids to a stop between two dumpsters. The car speeds towards her!

In the dimly lit interior, she sees a shaded Oriental face made grotesque and lopsided by a maniacal grin. Gagging exhaust and the stench of burning rubber wash through Amy, as the relentless car bears down on her.

Unable to move, Amy flexes her knees and jumps into the air. She twists her legs sideways, seeking maximum elevation, willing herself to hang in the air, as the low-slung sports car roars beneath her. She feels the hem of her jeans kiss the roof of the car. The radio antenna whines past her head. She drops, and seeming AFTER the last second, she sees her feet just clear the front bumper.

She lands awkwardly and falls to her knees and rolls forward, rising to her feet right in front of the car. Through the windshield, the driver’s face registers bewilderment. Even as he shifts gears, the driver engages the breaks. Clawing at the pavement, the tires scream and smoke.

Amy notes the license plate number, glances left, then right. The sudden shriek of a truck horn yanks her attention back to the sports car. Almost too fast for her brain to process, she sees the driver of the sports car look to his right. Terror fills his face. He throws his hands up in defense just as a massive city sanitation truck slams into the car dragging it out of Amy’s view. Someone screams. A second sickening crunch of metal from around the corner growls the announcement of further collision.

A fiery explosion lights up the street in front of her just as Amy reaches the end of the alley. A station wagon swerves towards the buxom bombshell, but stops in time for her to jump forward and slide on her hip across its hood. As her feet hit the street, a second explosion erupts from the wrecked sanitation truck. An exterior door handle whizzes past her head.

Amy starts towards the inferno for the driver. Before she can reach him, the passenger door of the truck flops open and the driver tumbles out. Blood streams from a gash above his left eye. Amy helps him stagger to the safety of the curb.

The driver of the station wagon, a man with a mechanic’s shirt that identifies himself as ‘Al’, joins her to help the man stretch out and takes a couple of steps towards the flames. “If the crash didn’t get him, the fire sure did,” he says as he reaches for the cell phone on his hip.

“I’ll call it in,” Amy tells him. “Help this guy out.” Without waiting for a response she turns and trots back into her building. Her instructions to ‘Al’ are simply an excuse to get back to Bobby Chung, at least three other witnesses already speaking frantically into their cell phone’s as she rushes into her building.

Bobby’s where she left him, eyes bulging, tongue protruding from between stiff, white lips. Checking for a pulse was a courtesy, he’s clearly dead. Amy retreats to her office and calls Headquarters for a Clean Up Crew.

The Watch Officer is Bert Clemens, recognizable by a southern accent thicker than a bowl of oatmeal. She gives him what she knows, including the car’s license plate number, and promises to be at Headquarters for a full briefing, first thing in the morning.

—

Amy sleeps fitfully, that night, flailing against a recurring nightmare in which a sombrero-wearing dragon named Foo chases her and tries to force feed her egg rolls and enchiladas.

The next morning, behind the wheel of her Porsche on her way to the hidden B.A.B.E. base in Malibu Creek State Park and reflecting upon the events of the previous night, sufficiently unaware of her surroundings.

A rusty pick-up truck with a battered wooden safety rail pulls up beside the Porsche and matched speeds. From the passenger seat, a Hispanic man studies her closely. Amy offers a neutral smile; it isn’t unusual for males to check her out on the highway, or every other place. The peering man says nothing, and after a moment, the truck roars ahead and eases into her lane. That it slows to maintain a position just in front of her, and didn’t continue on and out of sight on the highway, should set off a warning bell.

A moment later, a large sedan eases up behind her. The interior hidden by heavy tinting, the sedan begins to edge close to the back of the Porsche, triggering Amy’s first pang of unease. She glances around the pick-up and up the highway. The road’s clear, but there’s a hill to crest; not a place to attempt passing other vehicles.

The truck’s brake lights flash, forcing Amy to tap her breaks. The sedan behind backs off a bit, but not far enough to suit her. Amy glances left at a series of grassy, rolling hills. To the right, an area generally flat and empty quickly turns into clusters of trees. This winter is unusually dry, and the dark, gnarled trees make threatening gestures with sparse branches.

The sedan’s engine growls behind her, and the car darts alongside Amy’s Porsche. The tinted window on the passenger side is just faded enough for her to make out a single, shadowy form behind the wheel.

Glancing forward she sees the steady glare of the truck’s brake lights. She presses her brakes hard enough to cause a slight protest shriek from her tires and manages to keep from rear ending the truck. The pick-up cab’s back window slides open, and the barrel of a rifle pokes out. Out of the corner of her eye, Amy sees the sedan drift towards her. Its window whines down, and the driver, face still hidden in shadows, points a large .38 at her. The revolver wiggles, delivering the message: Pull over.

Amy checks the pick-up, then the sedan. Nicely done, she has to confess. They hem her in with vehicles large enough that she can not batter through them with the Porsche. Her speed reduces to the point where the success of a braking one-eighty spin is near impossible. If she brakes and simply reverses, the rifleman in the pick-up have plenty of time to fire any number of shots before she can pick up enough speed for a reverse one-eighty.

Very nicely done, indeed.

But with one small mistake on their part.

Amy bites her lower lip to keep from smiling. As secluded and tailor made for a kidnaping as this section of highway leading to HQ might look on a map, it’s riddled with side roads leading into the rapidly thickening wooded area on her right. Amy has the added benefit of numerous H.O.T.B.A.B.E. training exercises in the area, including Escape and Evasion. The area’s narrow, bumpy ‘roads’ are more suited for motorcycles and ATV’s, not for ancient pick-ups and heavy sedans.

Amy wrenches her steering wheel for a hard right onto one of the dirt entry roads leading into the woods. She hunches low, but hears no shot. Bouncing along the dirt road she chances a glance in her rear view mirror. Both the sedan and pick-up come to smoking, screeching stops, farther up the highway.

A map flashes in Amy’s mind. There is an immediate left turn just beyond the first line of trees, ending quickly in a dirt clearing. She can slash through, and be out of the Porsche and trotting down any of the several jogging trails, cell phone in hand, calling for back-up, which will take only minutes in the form of a rescue chopper from Headquarters.

No, she decides and stays on the main dirt road. Staying means almost a mile of straight road where she can put more distance between her and her pursuers. There she will encounter a fork in the road. With the cool, breezy morning, by the time her pursuers reach that intersection, her dust trail will have vanished. Then, she will make for one of the side roads and a circular route to HQ.

Amy’s smug satisfaction with her plan evaporates as she crests a small rise and sees the dirt intersection blocked by a pick-up truck very similar to the one that has her hemmed on the highway. Their plan has been perfect, after all. The kidnapers have timed their movements on the highway so that she will escape down this particular side road.

Amy jumps on her brakes and twists the wheel hard to left. The Porsche totters on two tires, threatening to tumble, but skids instead into the small ditch and settles down with a crunch. Amy feels the impact up her hips and into her shoulders. The air bag deploys, slamming into her face, stunning her.

She becomes aware of a cloud of dust surrounding her. Amy pushes back from the deflating air bag and instinctively reaches for her hands-free cell phone.

The barrel of a revolver appears through the dust from the passenger side and stares, with it’s one, large dark, deadly eye, at a spot between Amy’s eyes.

“No, Senorita Lindsay,” says a heavily accented Hispanic voice in a rather calm, almost friendly tone. “You best not do that.”

The dust begins to dissipate, revealing a face covered by a bandana over the mouth and nose, and dark glasses hiding the eyes. The man’s free hand disappears behind his back, then, reappears holding a pair of handcuffs. He extends them towards Amy. “Please. One to your wrist, the other to the steering wheel.”

As Amy plots to grab the cuffs and slash the man across the face with them, her captor drops them into the passenger seat and steps back out of reach. At that moment, the truck and sedan approach and stop. The man keeps his eyes, and the revolver, on Amy, and calls out in Spanish for the men to stay back.

With no alternative, Amy affixes the cuffs to her wrist, and then, to the steering wheel. The man grabs her wrist and gives it a hard yank. Satisfied that she can go nowhere, he takes her cell phone, tucks the revolver into the back of his jeans, and joins his comrades.

As they gather together, a cell phone, not Amy’s, trills. The ‘leader’ first tries to answer Amy’s, then realizes it is his own phone ringing. He takes it out and speaks in a tone too low for Amy to hear. At one point, his face registers shock, then puzzlement. On several occasions during the conversation, he looks over toward Amy, as do the other men. The leader signs off, and the men huddle.

Amy watches them converse among themselves. One or more kept look toward her, and it isn’t until the discussion begins to grow heated that she feels confident enough to adjust her position and reach under the dashboard with her free hand to press the button that activates a rescue alarm at Headquarters. She straightens up and glances at her dashboard clock. 8:32. If she can stall for ten minutes, fifteen at the most, help will arrive.

The ‘discussion’ between the men has grown into a full blown argument. Amy’s Spanish is not diplomat quality, but it’s good enough to catch the gist. One or more of the four wonder, since they aren’t going to kill her, anymore, can they still rape her? The man who has been waiting at the intersection speaks most adamantly against that option, and seems to hold the greatest authority.

Then, a shot rings out, and he crumples to the ground.

The man holding the smoking revolver, the driver of the sedan, Amy surmises from his build, grins wickedly at his remaining comrades and asks in Spanish if there are any more votes not to rape her. The other two men smile and throw up their hands in a ‘not me’ gesture.

The three leering men turn as one towards Amy!

TO BE CONTINUED!

William G. Jennings can neither confirm nor deny Miss Lindsay’s involvement in any ongoing government operations.

EPISODE 1

2009-09-02T20:03:00.000-07:00

Do they know about the body in the trunk, Amy Lindsay wonders. Her heart suddenly thunders through her chest.

In the glare of sunlight that slants off the hood of her rented silver Cherokee, Amy squints at a shadowy figure suddenly trudging across the road that separates the U.S. border checkpoint from the Canadian one. Two indistinct shapes detach themselves from the Canadian hut, and the three gather as one.

The American does the talking. Over the purrs of the vehicles around her, Amy can almost hear the discussion, but the glare keeps her from reading lips or expressions.

At one point, the American points out her Cherokee, and the discussion resumes.

Less than a minute later, the three separate and one of the Canadians approaches Amy. He signals for her to roll down her window. As his face emerges out of the shadows, Amy recognizes the same young border guard who saw her through, yesterday afternoon. His name is Edmunds and he smells of Old Spice and tension.

“Hello, Miss Lindsay. Back so soon?”

“Got a call to do some re-shoots,” she replies, reaching toward the glove compartment for her passport.

“No need,” the young man says. “Go right on over to the American shed, there.”

Amy turns on the power of her dazzling, heart-melting smile. “Is there a problem?”

For a brief instant his expression betrays uncertainty, then he forces a smile. “Just trying to speed things up for our American friends. You know, the Conservatives are back in power, so we’re allowed to be nice to Americans, again.” He straightens and waves to “The Shed” a large and windowless aluminum building the size of a two-car garage.

Amy presses the button to roll up the window. Before easing out of line and toward the shed, she lowers the zipper of her snow jacket, arches her spine and forces her shoulders back (making sure to congratulate herself for having the foresight to pack a wonder bra.)

That indistinct shadowy American blob was in the process of pulling open the shed’s rolling door. Out of the harsh light from within the shed forms a second shape, a bit thinner. He signals Amy forward. As Amy approaches the young man she sees his nameplate: Westin. He bends forward, as Amy’s window whirs down, and smells of Brute and uncertainty.

“Park in Stall Two, Miss Lindsay.”

“Sure,” she says brightly with chest out, her heart pounding. Does he know about the body? How?

Portable partition walls seperate the two stalls. As she edges towards Number Two, Amy catches a glimpse of the area beyond. The far wall consists of a similar sliding door, closed at the moment, and probably reinforced to prevent a vehicle from ramming its way out. End of Plan A, if needed.

The young customs inspector walks alongside the Cherokee, as Amy parks. She becomes aware of the bulkier shape of another inspector joining him, escorting her into the inspection stall. She brings the Cherokee to a stop and turns off the ignition. She takes a deep breath, lowers the zipper of her jacket a bit more, and throws her shoulders back.

“You can put those away, Goddess,” says an instantly-recognizable voice. The bulkier inspector kneels by the car and nods towards her chest as he settles his chin on the door’s edge. “You won’t be needing those to get by us.”

“Coop!” Amy calls out feeling the tension drain from her body. “Just when did you become a Custom’s Inspector?”

“About three hours ago,” Cooper Malloy replies. “Someone at HQ started feeling a little antsy about Canadian border efficiency and decided to make things a little easier for you.” He nods towards the back. “Our friend give you any trouble?”

“Sleeping like the dead.”

Westin returns. “Hello, Miss Lindsay. I’m a big fan.”

“Westin’s on loan from the DEA,” Cooper explains. “We figured they deserved to have a hand in this, considering Saeed was smuggling heroin to fund his terrorist training camp in Canada.” He nods towards the steering wheel. “Keys, please.”

Amy hands him the keys. “Need any help?”

“Nope. But you might want to stretch those long, lovely legs. We’ll want to give the other car a nice head start before we have the Canadians over to ‘help’ us inspect the Cherokee.”

Amy takes the advice and steps out. Coop and Westin sparse military stretcher out of the Cherokee and bundle a limp, bound and gagged from out of the tire well. The form moans as he’s strapped to the stretcher.

Coop smiles at the dark eyes staring dully out of a heavily bandaged face. “Welcome to America, Saeed. But don’t get comfortable. You’ll be in Guantanamo before midnight.” He signals for the orderlies to remove him.

In less than a minute the stretcher is secured in a Custom’s Service station wagon, and the two orderlies and its driver roll out of the shed.

“Okay, Westin,” Coop said. “Get the Canadians over to ‘help’ us inspect this suspicious vehicle.” He winks at Amy. “I told them this was a ploy to get your autograph.”

“You could have told me that,” she complains. “I almost had a heart attack.”

“You were the one who wanted a little more excitement in your life,” he reminds her.

The Canadian inspector arrives, and after a shockingly superficial search of the Cherokee, she signs autographs and is on the road again in five minutes.

Westin lingers outside the shed, watching the Cherokee disappear around a tree-lined bend. He asks Cooper, “How does an actress become a member of the Bureau of Anti-terrorism Bounty Enforcement?”

“Oh, we’ve got a lot of actors working for B.A.B.E. Models, actors, writers. They’re frequent travelers, don’t arouse a lot of suspicion. Make great couriers. We use her a lot. She’s a part of H.O.T.”

“H.O.T.?”

“Hollywood Operational Team.”

“You mean …?”

Coop nods. “That’s right,” he begins, confirming the obvious with, “Amy Lindsay is one of our H.O.T.B.A.B.E.s.”

—

With Omar Saeed no longer occupying her spare tire space, Amy drives leisurely through Washington and soon finds a quaint hotel past the Oregon border at Cannon Beach.

In the morning, she calls Headquarters and to learn Saeed has arrived safe and unhappy in Cuba.

Within two hours, she’s checked in the rented Cherokee and on a commuter flight to Medford. A weather delay and a connecting flight later, she peers at the setting sun, her plane touching down at LAX.

Amy tosses her bags into the backseat and slips happily behind the wheel of her Porsche convertible headed for her West Hollywood office to write up a report.

Before she can click on the WORDPERFECT icon, the office phone buzzes. She activates the speaker. “Hello?”

A voice with just a trace of an Oriental accent says, “I have your order.” Before Amy can argue the caller rushes to add, “I have a message for …ah …Goddess? From Dragonfly.”

Amy’s body tightens. On full alert she says, “Where are you?”

“Across the street, corner phone,” whispers the hurried caller.

Amy jumps to her office window and peeks through the blinds. There were only about a dozen pedestrians. Under the street lamp, she sees a tall, thin form at the phone booth.

“Pretend to swat at a bug.”

The figure does, using the correct hand with the proper finger twirling that legitimate agents use in this situation, this time of day, for a month ending with the letter ‘y’.

“Okay,” she tells the man. “I’ll meet you at the door downstairs.”

During the elevator ride down, Amy mentally reviews Dragonfly procedure. Dragonfly was a low-level distress call from an active agent. It means the agent needs to place an important scrambled call to headquarters. Her task is to confirm the agent works for B.A.B.E. or one of her many sister alphabet organizations, then step out of earshot while the agents delivered his message to Headquarters, promptly forgeting anything ever happened.

Outside the building’s door waits a dark-haired Oriental in his mid to late twenties. He wears a plain, black leather jacket and a paper hat with Chinese characters. In one hand he clutches a paper sack with “Woo Fung’s Food Palace” printed in a circle of black letters on the side.

He waited to be buzzed through the glass door and his eyes narrow, then widen in recognition. “I have your order, Miss Lindsay,” he says as he comes through.

“Oh, I forgot my purse,” she replies. “Come on up to my office.”

At the elevator Amy lets the man enter and holds the door open. “How much did you say it would cost?” The man gives her an amount, and Amy makes the necessary mathematical adjustments to come up with the special number that further proves he was legitimate. Only then did she enter the elevator. She punches several numbers, then turns and introduces herself with an extended hand.

“I know,” the man replies while eagerly grabbing her hand. “I recognize you. I’m Bobby Chung.” He shakes his head and grins. “Man, if I had known it was you at this Safe Point I’d have tried to make my reports here more often.”

“Thanks. You an actor?”

“Naw. Screenwriter. But what I really want to do is direct.”

Amy smells something. “That’s an actual order, isn’t it?” Her stomach suddenly reminded her it had missed supper.

“Sweet and sour pork, rice, egg rolls.” He extends the bag toward her. “I’m undercover as a busboy at Woo Fung’s, but I offer to help with deliveries as a cover for my little visits to places like this. A little cold, I’m afraid,” he apologizes, hefting the bag. “I snuck in the order as a prop for a Safe Point; this is the fourth one I’ve tried to make contact with this evening. Seems I kept picking ones were everyone is out.”

“I was absent myself, until just a few minutes ago.”

Bobby grins widely. “Lucky for me.” He nervously clears his throat. “Look, after I check in, can I pitch a few ideas at you?”

“Sure. What kind of stuff do you write?”

“Action adventure. James Bond stuff. What else? Being in this line of work.” He shakes his head. “This has been quite a day. I’ve broken a big case, and then I meet you.” The elevator dings as it stops at Amy’s floor. “This is turning out to be one of the better days I’ve ever had,” he says, as the doors open and he starts to step out.

And then, collapses.

She hears Bobby grunt, and an almost simultaneous whack of flesh on flesh as he slaps his neck. He starts to say something, then his eyes roll in his head and he crumples between the elevator doors.

Amy instinctively drops to her knees and looked up the hallway. The fire door at the end of the hall hisses shut, followed by the muted sounds of squeaking sneakers fleeing. She begins to stand and pursue. Bobby’s hand grips her arm. His face awash in sweat and his eyes wide and glazed.

“Foo,” he gasps. “Foo-foo. Mexican border. Must stop.” With that, he falls limp and his fingers slip away from her arm.

Amy slaps and sprints for the fire door.

Amy hesitates a nanosecond to pinpoint the sound of the fleeing sneakers. She hurtles downward, taking several steps at a time, balancing herself against the rail. She knows her own sneaker’s squeaks reveal her pursuit, but there’s nothing she can do about that.

Her mind leaps ahead. These stairs lead into the alley. Would a car be waiting? Her own Porsche was in the underground parking lot, useless to her in this pursuit. She felt for the cell phone on the waist of her jeans. The make of the car and a quick glance at the license plate should be enough to get them cracking at headquarters.

Just before she reaches the alley door, she hears a car engine rev. She slams through the heavy metal door and stumbles out into the alley. Even as she fights to regain her balance, she was scans the alley. The tail lights of a low-slung sports car winks at her. She tries to focus through the gloom on the license plate, but gets distracted by the sudden glare of the car’s brake lights and the screech of tires gripping pavement.

A large furniture truck partially blocks the end of the alley. Got you! Amy thinks. She begins to trot toward the car, certain she can get close enough to read the plate as the car maneuvers around the delivery truck.

The car’s red brake lights wink off and flash white as it backs up. And continues! The engine guns and the sports car leaps at Amy.

The car isn’t going around the truck. It’s coming backward. Towards her! Planning to go through her.

Amy skids to a stop directly between a pair of dumpsters, leaving her hemmed in-between them … with no room to avoid the speeding car.

Inside the car hurtling towards her, she sees a shaded Oriental face, grotesque and lopsided from a maniacal grin. Gagging on exhaust and the stench of burning rubber, Amy freezes as the car bears down on her!

TO BE CONTINUED!

William G. Jennings can neither confirm nor deny Miss Lindsay’s involvement in any ongoing government operations.