Danny rubbed his hands and shifted his feet. The night ended up being much cooler than he expected with a steady wind coming up from the Gulf that kept him returning to the fire he'd started in the metal barrel next to the run down wood structure - no more than a large shack, really - on the overgrown lot across the street west of the Bayou Cabin.

With his stooped posture and a bottle in a brown bag he looked just like another homeless. But maybe handsomer, he thought. From his position he could see the entire west and north faces of the club and its parking lot, and he was only a short sprint away from the main entrance.

South of the club's location, across another street, he watched as Cal's Hummer rolled to a stop halfway behind a huge sturctural support. Its lights had been turned off before it came into view and Mike had done a great job muffling the engine noise in the lower gears. For a larger vehicle it was almost sneaky.

The turret turned to face the club. Dany couldn't make out the shifting of the new telescopic camera locted adjacent to the .50 caliber gun - another new addition courtesy of Mike.

****VROOM!!****

From the dark interior of the military transport, Mike's fingers tapped away at the small computer open on his lap. The main screen on the vehicle's console displayed the image captured by the night optics camera he'd installed that afternoon. The light from the screen was shaded to prevent excess lighting of the cabin or potentially ruining the night vision of the driver. It was a trick he'd learned early on in his career with the Tool Shed.

Cal watched as the image panned left and then zoomed in on the two plain doors that made up the main entrance. The Bayou Cabin made up the lion's half of a stand-alone about a half-mile north of the Arlington truck stop. The other half was a take-out restaurant specializing in bayou cuisine, a walk-up and carry off type of greasy spoon. It was open, but save the lone individual leaning against the counter waiting for customers, it lacked activity.

The club itself bore a simple, tasteful sign above the front double-doors, and other than that had no decoration beyond the fresh coat of brown paint. Only one of what looked like the heavy fire doors had a knob, and there were no windows he could see. There were two subcompacts, two sedans, a pickup truck, and a motorcycle in the parking lot.

The plan was as tactically sound as he could figure, but being Cal, he knew how much a good plan was worth after ecountering the enemy.

****VROOM!!****

Back at Alamo Possible, Benjamin Franklin had removed his coat and was pacing slowly in front of a bank of three monitors, each lit up with a different view. One had the view of the club from Danny's position, courtesy of the small concealed camera in the pin worn by Danny transmitted through the more powerful relay on the Hummer. The middle image was of the interior of a sports car from someone seated in the front passenger seat - Honey Rose in this case, with her own camera pin. The last image was the one from the Hummer's turret camera.

Ben pressed the transmit button on the high range radio they'd managed to get running. Whether through the Hummer's sound system or the tiny earpieces worn by the people in the field, he said, "Alamo requesting a ready check."

The responses came in on a small speaker set up next to the monitors.

**Falcon and Rezin, ready...Yankee, Vixen are ready...Sidewinder ready, and cold.**

"Okay, Yankee. You are good to go."

"And now we can burn the play book," Cal sighed, watching the screen.

"Just as long as that's the only thing that gets burned, I'll be happy," Mike murmured, eyes not leaving the screen. He had to hand it to brother Ben, honestly, since he didn't think that they could have picked up some of the gear they have in time to be effective, but it worked. Time to quit my bitching, he thought to himself, and past time to get to serious work.

****VROOM!!****

Three sets of eyes watched as Price's coupe swept into the parking lot and took up a space between two other cars.

"Whenever you're ready, sugar," Honey murmured. They all knew her well enough by now to hear the suppressed excitement in her voice. She'd turned the rearview mirror of the coupe and was applying another coat of shining red lipstick.

Be a spy and see the world! Danny thought as he took another sig of the nasty tea-whiskey-water mixture. Be a spy and drink weak booze while freezing your ass off. Came his own rye reply. He stank like a homeless person. Price had been pretty complete in helping him with the disguise. His clothes smelled like three day old spilled whiskey and stale cigarette smoke. He was wearing a wig that felt slimy, because it was. And, his boots were old, worn and broken in for someone else's feet. Lastly, he had been instructed to not brush his teeth for several days. His mouth felt like the entire Army of Texas was marching through it.

To top this off, it was also cold and the fire was made from burning tires as well as wood - so it smoked extra much. The other bums kept mostly to themselves; they shared the fire, but little else. Everyone here had already been turned down at the shelter, and this was their only recourse.

Still, he glanced up at the Hummer and was glad that he wasn't in there with pappa-Cal. No doubt, he would be worrying and fidgeting needlessly the entire time Price and Honey were in the building. For a decorated war-vet, that dude was a total girl.

Price turned his head to the right and looked at Honey. "You're gonna be great," he told her. "You were born for this. Falcon, Rezin, Sidewinder, we are going in. Vixen, don't forget. I am a Security System's consultant for TexSec. No one ever asks a consultant for details about their job. Good lord you look hot," he said and flashed his smile at her before opening his door and swinging around to the other side to open hers.

She flashed him a smile that had broken hearts all over Arlington for that. "So do you, sugar -- that `not quite black' looks like it was made for you," she told him as she stepped out of the car. She was dressed like the high-end stripper she'd once been, red micro-mini in PVC vinyl with a matching bustier in black and red, a black sim-fur coat lined in red satin, platform high heels. She'd taken the name of `Cinnamon Candi' for this role ("But you can call me Cin") and left off worrying about it. No one ever really looked at a stripper's face when she was flashin' cleavage...

She clung to Price's arm as they walked to the front door, simpering and laughing like any good escort, preceding him through the door he opened. The entry foyer matched the description her contact had given her -- what none of them knew was whether there would be a guardian at the gate....?

Price let Honey do her thing as they entered the room. He pulled her into him and whispered in her ear.

"You keep their eyes on you like you are doing now and this will be a lot easier than we thought."

He pulled back a little and scanned the room, quickly taking in it's layout and occupants.

The foyer was done up in typical lodge decor. There was light colored wood paneling all around and the wooden doors were stained a darker hue. The first things Price and Honey noted as they entered from outside was the smell of cigars and the pro-Louisiannan theme to the community message board directly in front of them. A standard pay phone was on the wall to the board's right.

To their left was a Dutch door with it's top half open. The space beyond was undecorated and taken up by several coat racks full of hangers. There were maybe eight garments hanging there now, in a space which could probably hold hundreds. To the right of the pay phone was a door leading further inside, above which was hung a Louisiannan flag. To the right was another Dutch door, again with the top half opened.

A medium-height, heavy set man with a badly receeding hair line in a grey button-down and a brown leather vest that strained to contain his bulk was inside what looked like an office, with a couple of desks, a bookcase full of various things, and a gun rack on the wall which held a couple of shotguns, a bolt-action hunting-type rifle, and an old-but-well-cared-for Winchester lever-action.

The man stood at a counter built into the office side of the door's bottom half. He was talking to another man who stood on the foyer side of the door. The second man was taller, just over six feet, and dressed in jeans and an Arlington University t-shirt under a blue denim jacket. When Price and Honey came in through the door, both men were all smiles and joking about something. Noticing the newcomers, the conversation stopped and they checked them out, Honey in particular.

The taller man continued shamelessly checking out Honey's assets while the fatter man behind the door, still smiling, said in a high-pitched voice, "Hello, Mister, Ma'am. Need some help?"

Price looked at both of the men and nodded. He then looked at Honey and spoke to her affectionately.

"You were sure right, Cin" he told her. "This place does look authentic. I sure hope they serve Abita."

"Evening, gentleman. Which way to the bar?"

"It's that way," the heavier man answered in a medium Creole accent, still smiling, "but I'm going to need to see your papers first. See, the Bayou Cabin's a private club, and guests have to be able to show that they're from the Sugar State."

Price nodded as he reached into his pocket to get his papers.

"Andrew Calhoun," he said as he handed the papers over. "From Lafayette, but originally from Pierre Part." He leaned over and kissed Honey on the cheek. "...plus guest."

"Pleased to meet you Mr. Calhoun," the man said as he flipped through the passport. His eyes flicked up from the picture to Price and then back down. He turned the work visa over in his hands to read the exceptions and asked, "Pierre Part, that's in Ouachita Parrish, right?"

"Ouachita? No...you must have it confused. Pierre Part is in Assumption Parish. You know why they call it Pierre Part, right? Boudreaux and his brother Pierre split the family plot. When the state came in to aquire the land the townsfolk pointed across the bayou and said 'Oh. That's Boudreaux's and the other side...well that is Pierre's Part.' " Price flashed his smle and pulled Honey in closer.

Honey giggled at the joke, obviously caressing Price's leg with hers as he pulled her close. The fat man was everything he seemed to be -- it was the other, Mr. Arlington Tshirt, who seemed to think it was his job to be suspicious. Well, suspicious of `Andrew Calhoun' anyway -- he didn't bother to disguise the fact that he saw Honey as little more than an available outlet for any man's tensions and she wasn't ready to disabuse him of his illusions, just yet.

She did turn toward him, however, letting her faux-fur fall open to flash a bit of cleavage his way -- playfully, in character of course -- but more importantly, to give Mike, Cal, and Franklin a clear shot of his face for ID if necessary.

**That's my girl,** murmurred Franklin over the team's audio channel. **Okay, I got him.**

A tap at the keyboard sent a snapshot of the man to the computer behind Franklin which was already running a facial recognition pattern analysis of the heavy-set man against his database. The second image was queued to run next.

"What do you think, Hal?" the club manager asked his friend. The taller one took the passport and visa and looked Price over hard before scanning them.

"Mmm-mm. Seems okay," he said. "What kind of consulting work do you do, Mr. Calhoun?" he asked while handing the documents back to Price.

"Corporate Security Systems analysis and assessment. That sort of thing. But I didn't come here to this little taste of home to talk business," he said with a glance in Honey's direction before showing the two men the suggestive expression on his face.

"Well then, how about you let me buy you and your lady friend here a drink. C'mon." Hal turned and opened the door to his right, then held it for Honey, who blew him a kiss so steamy it could have come straight out of a bayou summer.

Beyond was a very large room. To their right was a huge stone fireplace with some matching dark leather couches and easy chairs around it. To the far left was a bar that ran the length of the wall. It was all wood and very nice, and the wall behind was well-stocked and three shelves high.

There were tables and chairs, and a large widescreen television across the room on the wall. It was currently running an autoduel telecast for an audience of five seated at a couple of tables.

At the bar were five more patrons, all men. The only woman in the room other than "Cin" was a petite but full-figured brunette tending bar in a low-cut shirt and a ponytail.

Everyone turned towards them as they came in.

"Hey everybody," Hal said to the room. "This here's Andrew Calhoun from Pierre Part and his guest. Let's make them feel at home. Sue..."

The bartender raised her eyebrows.

"Set them both up on me." Hal turned to the pair. "You make yourselves at home. I'll be out front if'n you need anything."

"Well ain't that the nicest thing. Real Cajun hospitality, what'd Ah tell you, sugar?" `Cin' gushed, hugging `Andrew's' arm tightly enough to threaten that bustier's ability to contain the cleavage -- and already doing her best to capture all the eyes in the room. "Where you wanna sit?"

Price indicated the table at the right side nearest the door that led to the rest rooms. He then released Honey so that she could saunter to the table while he, and the rest of the male population watched. She might even be able to grab some shots of the layout while she worked her way across the room.

She didn't disappoint -- but then, she rarely did. That micromini was short enough to bare hints of those rounded buttocks with each step she took; combined with her playful mannerisms, she'd drawn every male eye int he room, making it easy to get face shots of all of them.

"What you drinkin, Cin'?" he asked Honey once they reached the table. He then leaned in close so to whisper in her ear.

"Tequila Sunrise," she answered, giggling as his breath caressed her ear and neck. "The real kind if she can make one, but the orange juice kind is okay if she can't."

"Not sure but something with Hal doesn't see quite right to me. This is not the greeting I was expecting. Seems a but more outgoing and accepting than I would have expected. Does your `spider-sense' tell you anything?"

"Andrew!" she squealed, slapping his shoulder playfully, then leaning in to nuzzle his neck. "He was suspicious, but Ah think that's his job. Your papers seemed to put his mind at ease," she whispered, pulling back to giggle again. "You're so cute."

The menfolk at the nearby tables were all polite, welcoming smiles to 'Andrew' and his date, but mainly his date. They got a share of head nods and briefs waves in greeting, and there was a certain sense of brotherhood among the people here, a very "we're all in this together" vibe.

Honey was as successful as one would expect in drawing many an eye to her antics. But still, nobody was staring unpolitely. Nobody, Price noted, except the bartender. As he arrived at the long wooden counter he caught her perhaps staring at his date a bit too hard. She herself had a very attractive shape to her, with little to suggest a life free of physical activity. Her face was a bit long, though, and her eyes perhaps a bit too wide. Her mouth was large, too. But hey, you can't have everything. Where would you put it?

"Bonjour, e'tranger," she offered with a Cajun smile. "What'chayall havin'?"

****VROOM!!****

Given the noise that a dozen and a half motorcycles can make when travelling together, everyone pretty much knew they were coming. When they came into view covered in gang colors and all of them mounting some kind of gun or launcher, everyone pretty much hoped that they'd keep right on going. But they didn't. Instead they turned, in pairs, off the main road and into the dirt lot in front of the large shack next to which Danny was standing.

When the disguised team member looked around to see what his fellow derelicts were doing, he noticed that they had beat a hasty retreat and were already a hundred feet down the road and still moving.

The bikers parked en masse in front of the shack and climbed off their rides. As they stretched, joked, and walked inside the shack's front door, they all looked like they were packing heat to one degree or another, including the few women. Everything from pistols to shotguns to rifles - nohting high-end, but it's funny how effective even the most basic slug-thrower can look. Two of them pulled a stack of beer cases from a sidecar.

Great. Danny thought, These assholes. Danny hated biker gangers probably more than he hated any other type of person. But, this was not the time or the place to exercise that bias. He pushed his personal feelings down, slumped his shoulders some and took another drink of the weak booze.

One of the dudes on the end of the row of iron horses, his long hair greasy and his denim dustly from his ride, looked Danny's way and jerked his thumb.

"Beat it," he ordered in passing as he headed inside with the rest of them.

Mike glanced at the window devoted to Danny's spy-eye, and sighed. Trust Murphy to make things interesting, right on schedule. "Probably a good idea, Sidewinder," he drawled slowly. Just in case, he had a facial recognition program start capturing faces of the bikers, since there could be a goat or two among the rams. Or, just for grins, perhaps the Arlington PD might want to know about this little nest, should a bingo happen. Diversions on the public dime can be interesting, if needful.

Danny nodded and moved away from the warm fire. His shiftless walk carried him over to near where some of the homeless men were gathered. He stayed there for a minute, then meandered away, listlessly. He walked then moved back in the general direction of the bar. When he was back to within eye sight, he lay down in the shadows. Hoping that no one would harass -- or even notice -- a bum sleeping one off out of the wind.

Satisfied, he returned most of his attention back to the camera feed on the Humvee, but his eyes kept checking the others while his ears listened.

"These are your kinda of people more or less, Sidewinder, so it's your call." Cal huffed. "But it looks to me like they're more interested in a party than a gun fight. Let's not interrupt their drunk and endanger the mission if we can avoid it."

Mike winced slightly at that, but said nothing. It wasn't as if it would do a damned bit of good. Something about the old soldier just worked to aggravate some of the others. Mike was pretty sure that Cal didn't intend to come across that way

My people! Danny thought angrily, What the fuck kind of thing is that to say? He looked up from his stoop and angrily eyed the hummer's general location. Not that there was anything he could say to Cal or Mike now without blowing his cover. He eyed the bikes the gang had driven in on, trying to decide which ones was the leaders, or which ones were the best. It might be worth getting that information to the Hummer.

"I have eyes on the door." Danny whispered into his transmitter. He flashed the IR laser twice at the hummer to let them know where he was. "I'm going to light up what I think is the leader's bike." And he did, hitting the best looking, best riding bike once with the IR laser. Then he switched it off. "Confirm if you saw that."

He lay down and waited. The concrete was cold and he could feel the places where his body had been knitted back together ache some in the cold. Damn, I miss Matamoros. Thought to himself. Warm beaches and cold beer.

"Confirmed," Cal said, swinging the scope over to the bike so Franklin could get a good look at it.

**I got it,** their leader chimed in over the communications link. **Let's stay focused on the objective. Yankee, Vixen, let's start the music.**

****VROOM!!****

Franklin's voice came over the earpieces of Price and Honey clearly. As smooth as ever, they nonetheless picked up the intended prod in his prompting.

Price watched as everyone, including the bartender, was drawn to Honey. The beginnings of an idea formed in his head as he saw the glazed expressions of some of the patrons linger on her form. He reached out, touched her left wrist, and ran his hand up her arm as he leaned closer. It startled her a little, he could tell, but she covered it well. He let his fingers brush across the back of her shoulders and across her neck. He then pulled her into him and gave her a deep kiss that all the room felt.

Honey felt it too, right down to her toes, felt it in a way she hadn't felt a man's kiss in a very long time. It felt like melting, like wanting more...

He then shifted his head to her neck and whispered. "All eyes on you, babe. Even the barmaid. It's showtime, but don't make 'em peak too quick. I am gonna step to the men's room soon as I see my chance."

Price pulled back and looked into her eyes for a moment. "Dance for me, Cin. Dance for us all," he said loud enough for the room to hear.

He should have known from the complex, conflicted series of emotions that raced through her eyes that he was in for it. But then "Cin" giggled, smiling wickedly. "Would y'all mind if Ah danced for my fella here?" She asked, broadening her charm offensive to the room at large. "Maybe have Sue turn off the sound to the Autoduel there so Ah can play some of my music?" Long brown fingers slipped into her decolletage, pulling forth a tiny flash drive, one that would fit into any stereo's USB port. "It would be so great to dance for y'all, real intimate-like, y'know? Where we could all, well, see each other and all, right?"

After a moment's startled silence, during which Honey had cause to wonder if she'd misread the room that badly, there was a loud "Whoop!" and a couple of the younger guys jumped up to clear tables from the center of the room. "Cin" squealed happily and clapped her hands, handing the data card with the music off to yet a third guy, who was heading for the bar.

"Laisser les bons temps rouler!" One of the other guys shouted, obviously proud of his Cajun accent. "Sue, shut down the screen -- who needs cars when we got us a real live dancin' girl, yeah?"

"Well, y'all should thank Andrew -- buy him a drink or somethin'," Honey said, stepping over to where the tables were clustered to turn a chair or two out. "There, that oughta do it. Whenever you're ready, Sue. Let's get the party started!"

Honey squealed playfully, the guys roared. The music flared through the speakers, a cover of old Howlin' Wolf's "Back Door Man," an old Delta blues favorite remastered over a heavy dance beat. Honey struck her first pose as if pulled on strings. She bent over, hands touching the insides of her thighs as the first refrain started, giving them all a broad hip roll that demonstrated she knew exactly what that double entendre was all about.

Price had never seen his teammate do what she was best at, and Honey opened up with both bores before he knew what hit him. While the other men whistled and applauded, she strutted over to him proudly, caressing her belly and ass, making his eyes follow her hands and what she chose to display. She, who could read him as easily as she could any other man in the room, knew he was trying to stay focused on the mission, on staying in control -- but just then, she was having none of that. Whatever else you could say about her, Honey Rose could dance, and whether she was keeping it real for the room or paying him back for that last kiss, she obviously intended to turn the ice water that normally ran through his veins into steam.

She paced around him, long-legged and fine, fingers stroking his jaw, the back of his neck and shoulders, locking eyes with him for a fractional second as she came into easy view again, pausing right in front of him, hands cupping her full, luscious breasts. With a sassy little twist, she turned on those impossibly high heels and, crossing her legs at the ankles, bent over to display her pert behind in all its tanned, taut glory.

As if drawn, his fingers reached out to caress that smooth, silken skin...

The collective groans and wolf-whistles from the rest of her audience jolted Price back into a realization of where they were. He caught her mischievous glance from over the back of those red-clad globes, spanking her ass smartly instead.

The guys cheered him at that, and Honey jumped obligingly, sprawling on the floor in front of him momentarily, lips pursed in a child-like pout. Tossing her hair, she began that full-body undulation in time with the electronically-enhanced beat, causing every incipient erection in the room to wish it was beneath her... or behind her, Price thought appreciately, knowing she was working the room -- and him -- with, well, consummate professionalism.

The mission, Price, the mission. You've got work to... oh shit!

Still undulating, Honey's legs parted into horizontal splits, and she thrust that pert ass up into the air in double time with the beat, flesh jiggling. She held that right up to the beginning of the last chorus, then jumped upright again to dance -- really dance, the kind of "come fuck me" moves that began at her hips and ended somewhere in her shoulders. She straddled Price's lap, breasts pressed into into his face, grinding her vulva into his lap as the horn section took Back Door Man down.

The dozen or so guys in the room sounded like five times that many as they cheered, urging "Cin" to come over and dance for them now. She wiggled her ass for them, but let her long hair cover Price's face so that it looked to them as if she was kissing him.

And she did, for about five seconds. "You ready sugar? Ah'm fixin' to get serious about this now."

Cal watched it all on Mike's screen, a part of him wishing he was twenty -- or even thirty again, rather than fifty as he watched Honey dance. And not for the first time. He'd been in more bars and strip clubs than he could easily count. A sobering thought, especially since in all that time he'd found only one of the dancers even remotely interested in him once she was back in street clothes. Yeah, and she was so fucked up in the head she didn't know the Pope from the President.

Honey's legs parted into the splits and she thrust her ass up into their faces. The kid's good, he smiled to himself, noting the effect she was having on he and every other male at least nominally above room temperature. We might pull this stupid stunt off yet. And aren't you glad she's not really your daughter, old man? Yeah, he had to admit. He was.

There was a surprising lack of radio traffic. Cal and Mike were silent; Franklin was saying nothing. Danny was out here trying to pretend to sleep on a cold slab of concrete. He pulled his nasty smelling jacket tight against him and took another swig on his weak, horrid tasting drink. He eyed the gang's bikes and wondered if they would mess with the play here and -- if so -- how and what he would do. "OK peeps -- what's going on? Any movement?" Danny asked the ops team in the hummer.

Mike grinned at that, "Oh, you could say that, but nothing threatening." Except maybe a divorce, if Maria believed in such things. Well, that and if she didn't know me better than I know myself. Mike checked the other people in the shot, as well as the other visual feeds, while he worked to maintain his cool. Besides, the feed from the cameras was being recorded, for intelligence purposes.

Who knows? Danny might appreciate a copy of it, although that wouldn't be terribly secure. Probably best to keep it at the office.

"Oh, I don't know that I wouldn't call it threatening," Cal chuckled. "You might even say it's lethal. And the real attack hasn't even started yet."

"I'm so ready I could take you in the back room with me, Honey," he whispered hoarsely to her. "But instead I must do this alone. You have them hooked, now reel them in," he said with a wink. Honey could tell he was back in control of himself.

"Ah'll do mah part, stud. You just make sure you do yours," she told him, pushing off his lap with pleased, playful laughter. The playlist had moved on to a heavy blues cover of Superstition. Honey laughed, shook her hair, and began clapping her hands in time to the beat. She gathered her hopeful admirers in with a glance and shouted "Come on, now!" and beamed at them as they began to clap too. She crossed the room with a dancing stride, hips swaying provocatively, hands once again caressing her belly and breasts, fingers on her full, pouty lips, feeling their eyes follow almost as if it were a palpable touch.

Price scanned the room to take in the behavior of room's occupants. He let Honey slip off of him as he assessed the room and waited for the right moment to slip to the back where the bathrooms and storage rooms were. He glanced back at the entrance to see if either of the two at at the door were watching her. Or him.

Hal was standing by the entrance, leaning against the door frame and taking in the scene with a stoic air. If Price was going anywhere, it was sure that he'd be seen by the man.

A wordless exchange passed between Sue the bartender and Hal. She seemed nervously unsure, givng him a shrug and a cutting motion of her hand across her throat. Hal very slightly shook his head and the bartender nodded, then went back to watching the show with a mixture of arousal tempered by concern.

God they already wanted her. She could feel it seething in the air around her, hard-edged male lust slicing into her skin, wanting inside her, wanting to take her, use her, own her, destroy her. It was the kind of thing that frightened most girls out of the business or burned 'em out early. For Honey, it was the only thing she really ever understood about men and it may not have been pretty, but she thrived there.

Honey locked eyes on a middle aged man and almost didn't have to waste the effort to `read' him -- he was a breast man, lips trembling with every shoulder shimmy she offered. Her hands stroked the shiny red vinyl that partially covered them, cupped them together tightly, assumed a wide legged stance to bend over and offer him a long, sweet close-up of that cleavage, fragrant with tea rose and vanilla. He leaned in to bury his face in them, his compadres whooping and whistling. Honey knelt before him, stroking up his shins with her tits in time with the music, rolling back to her feet to offer the same to his shoulders, the back of his head. By the time she strutted away to find her next victim, he looked he was ready to name himself King of the Bayou.

Damn she's good. "Alright people," Cal said into the mike. "Here we go. Look sharp."

Mike exhaled softly, trying not to let his breath be a distraction. Note to self, do not save a copy locally. As sure as a flat tire in the rain, Maria or one of the kids would find it, no matter what encryption I used. I'm a God-fearing man, definitely, but I always give Murphy his due.

The mechanic flashed a grin as he shifted a bit in his seat. Vixen certainly knows her job, I have to admit that. Looks like she enjoys it about as much as I do mine. Good thing, too.

A jiggle here, a tug there, and the lacings at the sides of that vinyl skirt loosened and dropped to the floor, leaving her hips clad only in a sparkling red thong. Time to give the leg guys and ass guys something to think about, she mused, stepping out of the red pool under her heels. Honey picked a younger guy at random and straddled his lap -- facing forward. Superstition had given way to Beale St. Boogaloo (a perennial favorite with the bayou crowd) just in time for her hips and ass to grind out that funky backbeat -- above a hard-on that threatened to burst through the khaki trousers he was wearing. He reached out to touch those perfect globes, her cue to slide down into his lap, lean back and writhe against him from knees to neck.

She spun onto the floor just before it was too much, undulating into a sensuous crawl across the floor to the next man, the one who'd been watching her belly move almost exclusively. Her skin was damp with exertion as she slithered up beside him, arcing over his lap in a slow back-bend, vinyl bustier peeling off her skin, the diamonds in her navel piercing glittering in the light. It was like someone had offered him a ticket to heaven right then and there as her abdominal muscles rippled and danced just under his nose.

Rolling out of the backbend like the pro she was, Honey locked eyes with Hal as she rippled her body back out to the middle of her impromptu stage. The guy was making a valiant attempt to do his job, but it was Honey's job to capture his eyes and she wasn't about to let him slide.

Ah, he's an ass man, she noted, moving through some hip rolls that turned her to face the club's patrons, but left her ass pointed right at the aroused but over-zealous Hal. The breast men had already tugged loose the lacings on her bustier; a deft twist of her fingers on the magnetic strips in the back had let it fall away. Dressed by then only in a thong and high-heels, Honey strutted over to the table nearest the door (conveniently near Hal, of course), stepping onto the seat of the chair she'd turned out in order to get on top of the table (coincidentally giving the guys in the Humvee outside a gorgeous shot of her ass and legs, from Price's vantage point).

Hope you're quick enough, Price -- you get one shot at this.

What happened next was subtle, so smooth even an old pro wouldn't have caught it until it was much too late. Her attempt to step up onto the chair looked as if it bobbled, her ankle suddenly wobbling precariously on that impossibly high heel. She squeaked a little in fear, reaching out a hand to Hal for assistance to keep from falling.

It was pure human instinct. He reached out to steady her, she clutched it with all her meager strength until she steadied out, then offering him a sincere, if somewhat girlish smile. "You're my hero, sugar," she told him, dark eyes flashing coquettishly.

"No problem," he answered with a half smile cracking through his tough exterior. Glancing down Honey could see he was affected like the rest. He was doing a fine job of being gentlemanly about it, though. "I'm curious as to what you do for an encore, little lady."

Price saw his opening and took it. He got up and moved to the door that led into the back, confident that Honey had the room focused on her now. The door in the corner was unlocked, and didn't squaek when he turned the knob and pushed it open to slip beyond.

****VROOM!!****

Fuck this, Danny thought from his place on the cold ground. He pulled himself up, a shambling mess and started to walk toward the bikers shack.

"I'm going to check back in on our biker friends." He whispered, "It wouldn't do for them to do something stupid while we're exposed like this." He stumbled his way back toward the fire barrel. He should have an actual bottle of booze for this next time. He wished he had anything that might help him if things got ugly. He didn't want Cal to have to save his ass and ruin what was going on inside. But, mostly -- he didn't want to have to have his green-ass saved.

He walked back up to the barrel and warmed himself. Danny kept his head down, but his eyes on the door to the biker shack: hoping to see, or hear anything that might be useful.

It sounded like a party in swing, judging by the raucous sounds jumping out the shack windows. There was rock music, loud conversation, hoots and howls, and the occasional broken bottle sound.

Mike frowned as he noticed Danny's camera was out of position, and had returned back to the biker's and their little party. He used the console to mute his mike for a moment, and murmured to Cal his concern, "Sidewinder's headed back to the shack. I'll keep an eye on him, but I hope he doesn't start emulating the proverbial cat."

Cal grunted. "Good. I hate being outflanked." He switched to Sidewinder. "Good eye, kid." Then he turned back to Mike. "Danny knows his job. Wide vision on the flanks; focus on Price and Honey They're on the boss's prize. The rest of this is just window dressing -- until they get in our way."

Mike hummed tunelessly a moment, then mentally shrugged. He will admit that he could get too focused at times and miss the forest for the trees. His instincts were different, and that was fine. He just needed to remember that. Switching his microphone back on, he murmured low, "Yankee is starting to dance. Time for Swan Lake." Keep on our toes, indeed.

****VROOM!!****

Price closed the door behind him quietly before surveying his surroundings in the darkness. It was a locker room, with two-meter tall, quarter-meter wide lockers running along all the walls and up both sides of the sections in the middle of the room. Some effort had been made to create a decor that didn't have that locker room feel. There was chartreuse carpeting on the floor and wood paneling everywhere there wasn't a locker. A fake potted tree spruced up one corner of the room.

All of the lockers had brass plates at the top with a sequential number. Hunting quickly, Price found number twenty-six against the far wall about halfway down. The key fit the keyhole, and turned in the lock, letting the door swing open.

Inside the locker was empty except for the top shelf which held a folded road map of the greater Arlington area atop which sat a pack of Alamo cigarettes, atop of which sat a plain white book of matches. A second glance downward revealed a large brown paper bag hiding in the shadows at the bottom of the locker.

Well, well, well. What have we here?, Price thought as he examined the locker and saw the contents. He examined the interior as he looked for any traps or alarms that might be present inside the locker, but he found none. He picked up the matches to see what might be written on the outside or inside. Written inside the matchbook cover was an address: 4024 Melear Drive. He then put the map, matches, and cigarettes inside his jacket to hide them.

Finally, he reached down and examined the bag and the area around the bag, and again, nothing dangerous jumped out at him. Once he was certain of it's safety, he picked it up and quickly opened it to glance inside. There was a gun, an automatic pistol, and two spare clips for it sitting on top of something which took up the bottom half of the shopping bag. It was squarish and grey and had wires attached to it. Price had seen enough of his share to recognize a bomb when he saw one, even one in a paper bag in a locker in a dark room.

"Well fuck me running," Price said as he saw the bomb. "Falcon, I sure hope you guys are getting a good look at this. I wonder if someone is trying to do a remodel on The Cabin."

Price looked to see if the pistol and ammo could be removed without detonating the bomb. One he was certain, he checked the gun and put it in the small of his back under his jacket. He then placed the spare clips in his jacket.

"Falcon," Price began. "Playdoh is not the medium of choice for this here artist. I am open to suggestions, but we better move quick. Vixen can't be the center of the universe for ever."

"Well, Mr. de Ville, I'm ready for my close up. Play-doh is a medium I am familiar with actually." While Mike looked at the picture, he typed out a quick pop-up message to Ben's display. "APD, or silent running?"

**Not yet. Work it out.** came Franklin's text reply.

"Roger Wilco," flitted back as Mike's riposte.

There were times when you could get cute with communications, and times when you had to be painfully blunt. Still, he couldn't help but whistle Yankee Doodle under his breath. Call it a Marconi, yeah. "Radio-controlled, doesn't appear to be active, but can be armed remotely. I think. I could jigger it if it were out here, I have the tools and the talent. But I wouldn't want people joggling my elbow, it would ruin the paint job, and the Senora would not take it well." Yeah, considering she'd kill me if I ever got blown up and made her a widow, yeah...

"Easy," Cal advised, now intently watching the monitor. What was going on in Danny's quarter, however, was still a side scene that he had an eye on. "Yankee. Carefully tear the bag so i can get a clear view of the contents and all the wiring. Do not, I repeat do not disturb the wiring or anything embedding in the plastic. All I need is a view of what they've done to advise you."

Mike glanced over at Cal, and his teeth gritted quietly. He kept quiet, although he silently swore to himself that if Cal continued to jump in with both feet into situations that he didn't have even a vague understanding, there was going to be a reckoning. Of course, I could be prejudging my data again, and there just is something about Cal that ticks me off. Lord, you know that I am certainly not perfect, even if you didn't get the nightly reports from Luisa. Mike shook his head irritably, No, I've got to speak up. If Cal's going to try to bull his way through, we could end up with everyone in that bar dead. I'm not going to stand by for that.

Mike exhaled, then muted his microphone so as to ask Cal a question. "Falcon? Do you have a lot of experience with demolitions, particularly in their setting and disarming?"

Oblivious to the question posed due to the muted mic, Price cracked his knuckles and flexed his arms. "Roger that, Falcon," he replied as he began to sing very softly.

Well I've been around for you, been up and down for you and I just can't get any relief.

Price rolled his neck around from side to side as he heard the music and the cheers emanating from the other room.

I've swallowed my pride for you, I've lived and lied for you, but you still make me feel like a thief.

Price then blew on his fingertips as he leaned in closer to the bag.

You got me stealin your love away cause you never give it. Peeling the years away, and we can't relive it.

He finally reached out and started to tear the bag as Cal had instructed.

I make you laugh, and you make me cry. I believe its time for me to fly.

Mike watched intently as the device came into view. His eyes flickered over the wiring, and he smiled to himself. "Okay, it looks to be inert. It's miswired, although I don't know whether it's cautious or sloppy, but it ought not to go off in your face. Got an idea on how to get it out?" Especially since the bag's torn? Well, if it were booby-trapped, it would probably already be a fireball.

"Good work Yankee," Cal murmured. If he'd heard Mike's question he ignored it in favor of doing his job. "Do not I repeat do not reconnect those wires. In fact, you could yank them out and pitch them aside just to be safe, if you want to. Now, do you see any discoloration on the bag around what we're assuming is explosive? I don't see any through the camera. Oh... And if you do see discoloration, don't touch it. The oily type stuff is poisonous and can be absorbed through the skin. Won't kill you, but it ain't good for the liver and it might make you sick." He clicked off the mike. "And if there is discoloration then we know exactly what it is," he murmured to Mike.

Price chuckled to himself and shook his head in amazement. "Never knew you were the Mr. Wizard type, Falcon. But right now I am very, very grateful your parents gave you the 101 piece chemistry set that Christmas. Let me see what I can gather here."

Price scanned the bad for any of the markings or other things Cal had mentioned but found no stains on the bag or oily residue anywhere on the device itself. Price then removed the wires per Cal's instructions, and put them in his inside right jacket pocket.

Before heading out, Price scanned the locker and room for anything weird or out of place. He knew he needed to get back out there quickly, but this was his last chance. Nothing jumped out at him, however. There was the door to another room in the back corner, but otherwise the locker room was ordinary if poorly decorated.

Mike shut off his mike, "I'll let you know if he becomes a canary, then. So long as he doesn't start eating the stuff..." Mike smiled, "Now if I were a betting man, I'd suggest C-4 or Semtex, but it could go any which way."

"Not really," Cal shrugged. "Since we're neither in Eastern Europe or South Asia, it's either C4 or a home made version, and that's primarily what I want to know. C4 is safe to pick up and put in your pocket; the home made stuff is heavy in sulfuric acid and petroleum esters, both of which are hard on clothing, amongst other thing. And," he grinned at Mike. "If it's home made, that says a lot where it came from. Of course," he scratched his chin. "If by some weird chance it is Semtex, that says a lot too."

Mike nodded. "You'll occasionally see some home-brewed Semtex, too, not like the folk in Czechloslovakia are going to protest the use of their patent. Depending on where you get it, you could be safer than houses than with the old stuff. Me, I was wondering if they would have mixed in some TNT into it, considering how safe that is from a stability standpoint."

****VROOM!!****

The song ended and the room burst into hoots and applause. The looks on the faces of the men were lustful, some of them even predatory. They were crowding around her now, most of them having gotten up from their tables when she had moved across the room. The bartender looked to be composing herself in almost an afterglow, but her own lingering excitement was plainly visible through her tight cotton shirt.

If Honey Rose had been wanting their full attention, she certainly had it now.

"Cinnamon Candi" held her pose, eyes glittering with satisfaction at their reactions. It was a timed pause in the music, ten seconds of silence to let her gauge the crowd, and hopefully to hear a progress report from the team. Without the latter, all she could assume was either that Price needed more time or that Cal and Mike were beatin' their meat out in the HMMV rather than doing their jobs.

All in all, she hoped it was the former, not the latter. So she giggled in that empty air-headed way she knew men liked and fell into a drop-crouch just as the old Fabulous Thunderbirds' brass section kicked in on Wrap It Up.

"Ah think every woman should know how to dance like this, don't y'all?" She asked playfully, locking eyes with as many of her audience as she could. "Hal wants to know what Ah do for an encore -- Ah think we should see whether that pretty bartender of yours knows how to shake her pretty moneymaker, don't you? Come on, Sue," she sang out, hips grinding forcefully as she rose to a standing position again. "Come on out and dance with me, gal!"

**Almost done, Vixen,** Cal murmured into her ear. **Yankee's doodling us up a dandy and we'll be outta here.**

****VROOM!!****

The sudden kicking open of the door to the biker shack startled Danny for a moment. A large man stumbled out with half a bottle of Jack Daniels in his hand. He made for one of the cycles and rummaged through a saddlebag until he came out with a small pouch. Turning to go back inside, he spotted the young derelict by the trash cans.

The hulking sot stopped, curiously studying Danny while weaving in place.

Danny was standing, warming his hands over the barrel fire. He didn't look the big man in the eye; he knew bums never did that. He tried to seem very small. Hoping the big man who get off on the wordless intimidation and go back inside. He wasn't ready to get run off and he wasn't ready to take a beating at that dude's hands. That didn't leave a lot of options; and he really didn't want to force Cal's hand in the truck. He rubbed his hands together over the fire and stomped his feet nervously.

The big man started shuffling over to the barrel, looking intently at Danny as if trying to figure something out.

"I'm watchin', Sidewinder," Cal said to Danny. "Hopefully you won't need it, but if you do, I've got no problem giving that idiot a very quiet iron supplement. Better that than you hurt."

Aw, hell no. Danny thought. Don't you have important people to help? Danny still ignored the oncoming man, grumbling to himself as he took another sig of his tea-whiskey mixture and waited for the big man to make his move.

Halfway to Danny, the biker burped through his nose. His reaction gave a hint that it didn't taste especially fine. With a shake of his head, he made a hard left turn and kept on going until he was at the back corner of the shack, where he proceeded to open his fly and urinate on the building.

Danny's sigh of relief was cut short by another man coming out of the shack. This time it was a familiar face, the same one who'd given him walking orders upon their arrival.

"Rock? Where are ya Rock?"

"Mmover here...takin' piss," the large man replied to the other's calling. The other man turned towards the urinater's voice and spotted Danny. His demeanor went from good to very bad very quickly.

"I thought I told you to take a walk, asshole," he said menacingly, hands in fists, stomping towards the young disguised sentry.

Cal sighed and reached into the back for the silenced carbine. "Chicken I don't mind too much," he murmured to Mike, rolling down the window so he could shoot through it. "But turkey has never been my favorite. Especially pickled turkey." Once he had the rifle ready, he waited, hoping Danny could smooth the drunken biker's feathers.

"Well, you do have to admit that he's RTDA Prime Pickled Turkey, of course." Mike nodded and took out his rangefinder and binoculars, preparing to spot for Cal. "Remind me to talk with you and Yankee about your preferred longarms, so we can stock up. Carbines are all right for going in relatively lightly, but most hunting rifles are better sniping weapons, and are quieter to boot."

Danny squinted up at the big man. "It's cold." He said, "Besides, someone needed to watch your bikes and I figured you'd be happy 'bout that." He slurred his speech. He looked up at the man, "Been lotsa cops 'round here tonight; lotsa."

"Yeah, you're gonna need one," the irate long-hair replied. He was about to close the distance when his buddy Rock inerposed himself, nearly falling over in the process.

"Naw, man, he looksh shlike my brother-n-law. It's cool."

"Fuck that, man! I'm gonna kick his ass!"

"Naww!" The two large leather-clad men grappled. 'Rock' was clearly the drunker of the two but he had the size advantage and eventually shoved the other away. The smaller of the two (still larger than Danny) fell backwards onto his hind quarters.

Rock turned towards Danny. "You awright bro-buuuurrrrp-other?" He held out the half bottle of Jack. "Have a drink, man."

The one who had been pushed stood up in severe anger and pulled a revolver out of his belt, then pointed it at Danny. He looked more than ready to use it.

"Respect my authori-tah!" he shouted while cocking the hammer.

"Mike, fire up the weapons," Cal murmured, still following Mr. Authori-tah with the scope. He didn't mute the mike for that one either. He wanted everyone to hear it, including Bowie.

Mike's deft fingers tripped a few switches and brought the turret to life. It swiveled this way and that and finally rested with an attitude towards the biker shack.

"Eagle's Talons are unsheathed, Falcon."

"Hey!" Danny slurred, throwing his hands up. He felt himself getting smaller. He could hear the voice of his undercover teacher, Most disguises don't work because they are abandoned too soon. He reached up and took the bottle of Jack from Rock.

"Here." He said to gunman, "Have a drink." He took a half step toward the gunman, bottle outstretched.

****VROOM!!****

The bartender's protestations were half-hearted to Honey's eyes. The dancer could see the desire in her eyes even as Sue's smiling mouth said no and she held up her hands against the roaring throng who loved the idea of a little girl-on-girl. The only problem was that the crowd's attention was now turned towards the bar...just as Price made his exit from the locker room.

"Hey," Hal said loudly in Price's direction. "What are you doin' in there?" Several heads in the crowd turned, a few of them displeased.

Thinking fast, Honey affected a breathy giggle. "Restrooms are through the other door, Andrew honey," she laughed, shaking her tits a little when the men looked back at her.

"Boy Ah sure got you rattled, don't Ah? But come on now, Ah'm about to do a dance with sweet Sue there -- ain't she somethin'? Hotter'n a smoky bearing -- who wants to bet me that gal can dance?"

"Yeah, I realized that when I couldn't find the pisser in there." Price replied and acted slightly embarrassed. He then turned and immediately went to the bathroom and stood in front of the urinal.

Sue was helped up and over the bar by several men who weren't taking no for an answer. She was herded over to Honey where she decided to give in and let her eyes run over Honey's body in a way the dancer had come to know, even with women. Sue didn't have the prettiest face, but her body was tight and athletic and her curves were very nice if not quite as curvy as Honey's.

Most of the men had gone back to cheering Honey on, but now with a sense of expectation. A trio of them, however, had gathered quickly around Hal and were talking quietly and seriously while making frequent gestures towards the men's room.

Honey turned to face the men around Hal, letting the guys in the HMMV get a good look at the goings on while her mouth and eyes smiled at Sue. She'd heard Cal's words to Mike over the open circuit and knew things were heating up outside too -- they may not be able to rely on the guys for backup as originally planned.

"Get pics of those faces, Bowie. We may be needin' 'em later," she said, keeping her voice down so only the throat mic could pick it up. "And tell Yankee not to play with it while he's in there -- we got trouble."

"Damn girl!" Honey called out loudly, hips gyrating in time to the new music kicked over on the sound system. "With a body like that, you should be dancin', not tendin' bar! Now, I want me some o' that!"

With saucy little giggle she stepped back down from the table onto the chair, one hand on a convenient shoulder (one of the men talking with Hal, as it turned out). The others clustered around -- they wanted to touch, they always did -- which gave Honey the excuse she needed.

Both feet safely on the floor and still right next to the trio with Hal, she squealed in startlement and pain, turning hurt and indignant eyes on the other men who'd crowded in close.

"Knock it off! That hurt, you bastards!" Her hand cupped her right buttock and tears sprang into her eyes. She stumbled back into the trio around Hal as if seeking protection. "Which of you pinched me so hard? Dammit," and by then she sobbed a little, "that hurt like hell!"

She curved around to stare at her behind, now crying in earnest at the red mark there. "Oh mah God....! It's gonna bruise! Ow!!!"

"Stay cool, Vixen,** Cal murmured into the mike. "Yankee, shake, don't play with it. You guys need to be in the loop now, cuz if Daddy works this right, it'll be the best thing to happen since Vixen's last birthday party. Just be ready to dance to the bugle if it calls."

"Oh, and Bowie: I hope your land line works."

**Just stay focused, people,** Benjamin Franklin voice calmly stated over the line as though he was watching a tennis match. **Vixen, Yankee, you're doing fine. Time to make your exit.**

In truth, Franklin was beaming at his displays. What had been a simple in-and-out mission had been tossed a few curves and could easily have gone sideways several times over for multiple causes. But the team had shown enough improvisation and adaptation to maintain a viable shot at mission success.

This is a good team, he thought, quite possibly my best. But getting in is easy. Let's see how they get out.

****VROOM!!****

"Say goodnight, asshole." The hand on the biker's gun began to squeeze, and Cal reacted as he'd been trained. Even as he fired, however, he felt the gust of Texas wind rock the Hummer, and his aim along with it.

The revolver fired. The bottle of Jack exploded. Something ricocheted off the barrel behind Danny. The closest front window of the biker shack shattered simultaneously with the rear glass of a Pirhana sedan parked outside the Bayou Cabin.

There was a pause as all three men outside the shack took stock of what happened. Then Rock burst into loud, body-wracking laughter.

"Dude! What did you shoot?!" The huge biker walked over to his friend and pushed him in the shoulder, gesturing at all the broken glass. "Oh my God, man, that was awesome!" Both men were laughing about it now, Danny apparently forgotten.

The gang poured out of the shack to see what happened. Rock turned towards them and pointed at the no-longer angry biker with the smoking revolver, laughing as he tried to explain.

"He shot...and hit the bottle, and the window, and the barrel, and the car...HA HA HAAAA!!!" The bikers all seemed to find it highly amusing.

****VROOM!!****

The bubble of fun had burst inside the Cabin's lounge. Half the crowd was upset over "Candi's" pouting, the other half starting to wonder what the hell was going on, perhaps just now figuring out that this wasn't an ordinary series of events. When "Andrew" appeared from the hallway to the men's room he was greeted with a mixture of stares, none of them pleasant.

Hal looked at Price for a moment and then said, "I think we ought to..."

He never finished. The sound of exploding glass from out front drew the attention of the entire crowd. Taking her cue, Honey screamed as loudly as she could. Hal took off for the door, followed by most of the folk in the lounge.

Without a second thought, Honey grabbed her purse and donned her coat. "Ah think that's our cue, sugar," she murmured to Price, acting the part of the frightened, pouty little dancer girl for all she was worth. Huddled in her jacket, she followed the rest of the room's occupants out, sidling around the back of the crowd until she got to her car, either dragging Price along or following, whichever seemed most prudent.

****VROOM!!****

Mike tapped Cal, who was still scoping the bikers, on the arm. "Check it out," he said, pointing towards the main entrance of the Bayou Cabin.

Hal had walked out of the club along with the fat man from the front office who was carrying that neat lever-action Winchester. Several of the club members were forming up behind them as they inspected the car that had been hit by the ricochet. They only had to look at the gathered group of rowdy, half-drunk bikers to know the cause.

"Hey!" the fat man called out across the street while walking in that direction, but the gang paid him little mind as they laughed at the story Rock was telling. The fat man fired once in the air and got their attention.

"I wanna know who's going to pay for that window, God dammit!" he shouted.

"Well, who's car is it?" one of the bikers asked, generating another round of laughs from the group.

I missed? Cal was none to happy with himself, though the results were alright enough.

**Play along as you need to and don't rush your exit, Sidewinder,** he murmured to Danny. **Yankee team is on its way out, but this could still go South in a heartbeat.** You wanted an exit diversion, old man. You got one. "I'd prefer aces," he murmured to Mike. "But I'll take jacks over eights any day."

Price and Honey just had to filter out with everyone else at the Bayou Cabin and once in the parking lot they were for the moment forgotten in the impending confrontation with the bikers. His car was right where he parked it. Danny, too, wasn't a point of interest any longer as the bikers seemed to be having too good a time at the fat man's expense.

Honey's hand slipped into Price's as they edged away from the group and toward the car. "Makin' our exit, Falcon," she said quietly, knowing Price was watching for signs of last minute trouble. "Let us know when you got pick up on Sidewinder so we can get the hell out of here."

"Do it," Cal murmured. "Sidewinder, prolly a good time to go find your ride."

Price helped her in, then jump slid across the hood to the driver's side. He glanced around before getting in the car and starting the engine. He looked at Honey and the fire was alive in his eyes.

"Gets your blood running, doesn't it," he asked her with a wink. He then flipped the com on before he continued. "Yankee revved and about to jet. Departure confirmed, Falcon." Price slapped it into gear and punched the accelerator to get he and Honey safely away from The Cabin.

Danny looked at the broken bottle in his hand and thanked Jesus-Buddha-Mohammad for the luck. He did not let go of the broken glass in his hand. Instead he used the commotion to slip away back towards the warmth of the barrel and away from the 'excitement'. He watched as Honey and Price got into their car. Then, he moved away -- back to where he left his ride.

**This shit will get you killed.** He whispered over the radio when he was out of ear shot of everyone.

"You got it, sugar!" Whether she was answering Danny or Price (or both), Honey was exuberant and it throbbed in her voice as loudly as chopper blades. "Let's roll! Meet up at the Alamo?"