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"Watch it, kid. To the left." He strained to see more deeply into the heavy shadows beyond the dumpster. "Near the corner of the bank."

"Got a lock," Bucky said confidently.

"It's never so," the tall motionless figure snapped back. The hands gripping the Uzi were slippery with sweat. He wiped a palm on his pants. It wasn't much help.

The coarse blond hair casually pulled together into a ponytail lay heavily upon his neck and the small of his back. In sharp contrast, the full beard was neatly trimmed. He shook his head as if to lighten the burden. It was a futile effort, but he'd known it would be.

It was one of those sweltering Miami nights, the air made heavy by approaching Hurricane Daniel. He squared heavy blocky shoulders. Then focused on obtaining oxygen from air in which it seemed oddly lacking.

The service area behind the mall was dark; yanking the main circuit breaker had assured that. The only illumination came from the half-moon; it faded in and out as storm clouds scuttled beneath it. Even in the near shadowless night, shifting patterns of lesser darkness raced across the asphalt, jumping parked cars and trucks, adding to the illusion that all was in motion. The gusting winds slapped his pants against his legs at odd moments.

He wasn't expecting trouble, despite Tony DiAngelo's suspicions of it being a setup. But it was his job to be ready. Besides, any time five million bucks was being swapped for white powder, there could be trouble of the worst kind.

He and the kid were positioned at opposite ends of the eighteen-wheeler. He'd suggested they'd both be better off at the rear, with the cover of eight heavy tires. The kid had opted for the front, claiming there was a better field of fire.

He'd placed three other men in the cover of the warehouse to the North; they were responsible for all to their front. Between him and them, hidden from view, was the limo. Behind the wheel, Tony DiAngelo. Another two men were close by.

All knew the priorities. First Tony D. Then the bucks. It would be unwise to survive if the bucks were lost, unless Tony D was lost as well. The possibility of the latter event occurring was extremely small. The man was sitting in a comfortable cocoon that was more a tank than a car.

Blinding light slammed into him as the black Caddy rounded the corner at the back of the mall, its high-beams slashing through the night. "Look away, kid" he cautioned.

"The name's Bucky, not kid."

"Just do it." His own eyes were still fixed on the corner of the bank to his left. He'd checked earlier. Could someone have gotten around that corner into the cover of the dumpster? Without being seen?

To his right, Tony started the engine in the limo. The head- lights flicked on, then off. He tensed. They were targets now, if those approaching had brought guns instead of bucks. As the Caddy closed, he eased up toward the back of the trailer, letting it block the moving headlights, but not his view of the bank.

Tires screamed. The Caddy's lights suddenly swept to the North. He dashed for the trailer. The night erupted with a different light, a different storm. Rounds slapped at the asphalt beyond where he'd been standing. They'd been launched from beside the dumpster, sixty feet to his left.

Next to Tony's limo, Carlos grabbed his gut, then tumbled out of sight. As he dove for cover behind the trailer's wheels, the kid went down. Had it been by choice? He couldn't say. "God damn it!" he screamed.

Prone under the double axles, he faced a man at either side of the dumpster, revealed in the backlight from their bucking Cobrays. At least their attention was focused on him, not the kid. He loosed three rounds. Then four. As he ducked back, he was rewarded with a high keening wail. Then a dying finger locked on a trigger and rounds arched into the night sky until the clip was emptied.

At the sound of fire from the kid, his heart leapt. "The Caddy," he cried. He lunged up to one knee, took two precious seconds to sight through the notch in the tires, then fired. Five rounds. Then four more into the screaming figure reaching from cover, grabbing for an ankle.

When certain the man was out of it, he twisted and dove again for the ground. He sprayed the Caddy to the right, trying to decide how many guns were to be faced on this front. As the kid moved toward the front of the truck and fired, he reversed the taped clips, desperately trying to get a feel for what had become a battlefield.

Did the fire from the warehouse to the North outweigh the incoming rounds? It seemed so, but then Solly went down beside the limo. And he could be sure of nothing at all. Except that Tony D would be totally enraged by now.

He had no time for that. Or for the battle to the North. Those behind the Caddy must be driven inside. And away. He struggled to free two more sets of taped clips from his belt. He'd be left with only two. Would it be enough? Dumb. What in hell was enough?

He'd have to chance fire from the North. He settled the clips to the pavement, then hunched out around the heavy tires. "Go for it, kid. Now!" he cried.

Both raked the Caddy from front to back with continuous bursts. Heads ducked. Three, maybe four men. He fired at motion, not at a defined figure. A three-round burst. Then four at another. Three figures lunged up together. He emptied the clip, then ducked back, trying to ignore rounds screaming off the pavement after zipping by within inches of his head.

As he reversed the clips, the kid fired again. Then his own Uzi was bucking. They had control. He was sure of that. If the luck held. When the clip hit empty he grabbed another set and jammed one home. He put down fire this time without taking any rounds.

When he heard the engine start, he knew they'd won this fight. The men at the warehouse were clearly winning theirs. Maybe the kid knew it too. For he lurched out from the cover of the truck and emptied the clip at the moving Caddy. Then thrust the empty weapon at the moon. A gesture of triumph. Or a celebration of victory. Of survival, maybe.

A shot rang out. The roar mocked that of the autos still in use. Tony D's .44 magnum. The kid crumpled to the ground as if the body had suddenly become old rags, still clinging to the Uzi.

"He wasn't part of any setup! I told you that!"

For an instant, Tony's snarl of rage was visible as the clouds cleared the moon. Slowly, deliberately, Tony lowered the magnum. The window began to close as the limo moved off.

"You fucking bastard!" He loosed the rest of the clip. But the angle to the turning limo was too small. The window had nearly closed before his finger had moved. The rounds ricocheted harmlessly away.

Suddenly he faced heavy incoming fire. Shaw and the others at the warehouse had a new target. Tony D would expect it to be taken out.

He grabbed the remaining pair of clips, scrambled out from beneath the trailer and ran, keeping the wheels between himself and the warehouse. Rounds notched pavement ahead of him to either side, urging the exhausted body to even greater speed. What had been rivulets of sweat flowed more heavily.

At the last instant he cut sharply left. Rounds followed him. By the time they anticipated his path, he had dived into the cover of the alley. His clumsy somersault brought him back to his feet. He whirled, driving a clip home. He stood swaying in the darkness, shoulders trembling as he fought for oxygen in the heavy air.

"Come on, you shits!" he screamed. He knew they would, because Tony D would demand explanations of failure. He also knew he had time; they would come slowly, cautiously, for they knew his work.

He whirled at the whisper of sound behind him, his finger pulling the last bit of slack out of the trigger. The shorter stocky man he faced had undoubtedly done the same with his own Uzi.

Brutal images made a joke of his efforts at rational thought. Of a man clutching his gut as he went down. Of the kid thrusting his weapon at the moon. Then a diabolical replay of his collapse to the ground.

What he wanted to do was pull the trigger. To hold it firmly. Until every round in the clip had plundered and pummeled the stout figure he faced. "Don't say it, Hank," he heard himself scream. "Don't say one fucking word!"

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Mark is headed home. To Los Angeles. While Eva doesn't know it yet, she is headed there as well. But it's a big town. Hardly a chance they'll ever meet.

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Years ago, Eva had agonized over an appropriate title, but in the end had assigned none. Printed across the bottom in a light italic was, "Consulting Economist, The General Motors' Saturn Project." Beneath other thoughts, she'd written in a bold tight script, "Aide to Admiral Gerald Shorn, Presidential Advisor."

"Pretentious," she muttered, thinking back to the admiral's first call. Back to the not so gentle twisting of her arm that had been relatively pain free. What had finally decided her was not his quiet persistence. It was memories of the way he had stood beside then candidate Governor Wardell and announced full confidence in the man. This, at a time when many had little or none.

"So now what?" she murmured, frowning. The bright eyes flicked briefly about the drab gray walls that seemed to define a prison cell. Mentally she ticked off the contents in the stacks scattered about the room. She'd accomplished all that had been asked of her. What remained was the collection and organization of nit-picking detail. And the polishing of final forms. But her staff could manage all that.

She embraced these heady, hectic times. It often seemed as if only the new President was taking it all in stride. She had been swept up in the excitement of inauguration. And the challenge Admiral Shorn had offered seemed a natural extension of that. A chance to effect real and positive change. Or at least to be part of it. So far, that hadn't happened. She'd been given no indication it would.

The admiral was not easy to know. He was a very private man, despite his notoriously bombastic outbursts. One who seldom revealed his own thinking. A determined man, but he didn't seem to be in any hurry. Perhaps that was it. That it wasn't clear to her where he was headed. Or what her role might be.

Looking again at the sheet of stationery, she brushed an errant shock of hair out of her eyes. Determinedly she grabbed a pen and crossed out all that she'd written. Then crossed out the printed line. "Better. If my name's not enough, so be it." Then long slender fingers rippled across the keyboard bringing the screen alive again.

The nearest printer complained. Be..ep. Be..ep. Be..ep. She leapt from the chair. "You've got to be patient," she said soothingly, poking at a sensor with the pen. "There's plenty of paper. Really." In a moment the clatter picked up again. "Help is on the way. Trust me." She patted the machine, then sighed. The repair order was already five days old.

She clamped her hands to slender hips and glared at the walls. Sapphire blue would help. Ivory drapes. A simple linen. Big bold pleats. She nodded, agreeing with her suggestions, then suddenly rushed back to her chair as if fearful idle thoughts had kept the computer waiting.

At the knock on the open door, she jumped, then collapsed back into the chair. She shook her head, then stood and turned.

"Didn't mean to startle you," Admiral Shorn said gruffly. "Where's that bulldog secretary of yours?"

"Home with a sick kid, if she wasn't telling tales." She moved to check the printer. She adjusted the flow of paper slightly, then patted the machine again and asked, "How did the meeting go?"

"More than the usual bs." He sighed heavily as he closed the door. Then he lumbered over to gaze out the window.

Eva knew the talk had been related to pending cutbacks in weapons systems. But since she didn't know the particulars, she could not guess what more than the usual bullshit had amounted to. For the Admiral never mentioned specifics, although he frequently did as he had just done. Appear suddenly. Then grouse about the day in grumbling summary. As if he needed her as a sounding board, a test bed for emerging thoughts to be used later when full grown. She had watched as many of her ideas began to be reflected in what he said. She was immensely flattered by it all.

"They don't believe it's going to happen." He turned back to face her, scowling. "They will, though," he said.

There was a sudden iciness to the dark eyes that startled her. It felt as if an odd chill had settled about the room. The admiral had commanded an aircraft carrier for years. It occurred to her that such men routinely think in terms of do or die. And who will do which.

When he turned back to the window, he muttered, "They'll dance when I whistle, soon enough."

Eva did not doubt it. This was the first time she'd seen the warrior part of him. Ever ready. Ever willing. A faint tremor coursed down her spine. She reminded herself that she was not under his command. It helped.

She settled back onto the desktop, trying to think of something to say. A way to move on. She set the long legs to swinging and said, forcing lightness, "You're the boss, aren't you? Why not simply tell them how it's going to be?"

"Humph," Shorn snorted. "The way it works with command officers is you invite them to participate in the decision-making process. At least that's what it says in one of those dumb manuals."

"Sapphire blue would be best," Eva said, with even greater lightness.

Shorn scowled at the walls. "Too feminine."

"And me?" she asked brightly, spreading her arms wide.

"Humm."

Well, he'd almost smiled before turning back to the window. "The drapes are in mourning," she said. He gave no sign he'd heard, but she knew he had.

"This whole gig's a ... ah, crock up," he mumbled as if to the glass. "That young man in the White House is looking older by the day. He gets this look in his eyes whenever talk gets around to the jobs lost. And the ones we're going to lose. The way it's going, he might skip some years and jump right into old-age. God knows what it's doing to me. Seems like I've been suckered by a barrage of youthful optimistic crap."

"That's not the way you described it to me on the phone."

"Common military procurement? Harry Truman tried. And failed. Now to make it more interesting, we add in a couple of other things. Imagine. Reps from defense firms sitting at a table with politicians and generals. Then agreeing on anything. Let alone something good for the country."

"We're the only nation in the Western world without a common procurement procedure. Without a defined industrial policy."

"That's not easy to sell."

"You know what will happen if you can't."

"If it's left to market forces, the defense industry will collapse into ... Hell. It'll be a total ..., ah, crock up."

"Snafu may not be politically correct. But it fits."

Shorn turned back to face her. "Build the world's finest military machine with half the present budget? Seems impossible," he said, as if daring her to contradict him.

"If it's as grim as that, I should be getting back to Atlanta while some of my ex-clients remember my name."

"The President would be disappointed."

"I'm sure."

"Where do you think I got your name?"

"No way," she muttered, with a snap of her head.

"Reversing America's Industrial Decline," he recited. "He gave me my copy. Distributed a hundred others. Called it definitive. Said the pillars in the temple are still shaking."

"I don't believe this."

"What do you think of Rafferty?" Shorn asked innocently.

Here it comes. Another setup. But what's that look in his eyes? My God, it is. It's a twinkle. "He's quick. Bright," she replied cautiously. "Why?"

Shorn pretended not to note the snap with which Eva had punched out the question. "Attractive?" he asked.

"You don't make it as Cupid."

"I'm old fashioned. A beautiful young woman should be married and raising kids, not out trying to change the world."

"Chauvinist."

He nodded. "And I drink too much brandy and smoke vile smelling cigars whenever I get the chance." He stepped closer. "I want you to join Rafferty's team in California."

"An economist? A mere woman at that? Expected to deal with the macho world that produces military weapons? It won't work."

"If you run into a problem, see Rafferty; he's effective. If he can't deal, call me." He extended a card. "Give your name and you'll be linked to me. I've never met a defense contractor who didn't dance when I whistled."

"Why me?"

"I want the best at Darriot."

"Why?" she demanded.

She still hadn't taken the card. He laid it down on the desk, then began pacing in his lumbering way. "That's harder." He ran stubby fingers through his hair. "I spent a few days there, shortly after the election. The CEO, Floyd Tyler, seems a capable man. They've a top engineering group. A good staff all around. But more important, they're hungry. Being the new kid on the block, they should be more amenable to our policy requirements. We've got to start somewhere. If we can't make it happen there, we may not make it happen at all."

"I thought you favored the Invader?"

The admiral nodded, then shrugged. "But my job's to build a consensus. It might come down to the Raider. Senator Overshult has nearly convinced Congress. Give me what the President needs, then all I'd have to do is bully some total hard-heads into going along." He stepped toward her and extended a burly hand. "Will you do it?"

Although there was no power on earth that could have kept her from a gleeful yes, she asked sweetly, "Sapphire blue? Linen drapes in an ivory tone? Great big pleats?"

"Since you're a civilian, Naval regs don't apply. I can handle it, if requisitions knows what you mean by great big pleats. Deal?"

"Done." She grabbed the beefy hand with both of hers.

"You sold too cheap."

"You offered everything I need for now."

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Later, Eva has questions only Mark can answer. But there are those who have had quite enough of Eva's questions. She may need to be eliminated. Mark's fate has already been decided.

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