Fabler stared into himself. Into infinity.

  Infinity stared back—

  —and it broke him and broke him and broke him and broke him and broke him and broke him and broke him and broke him and broke him and broke him and broke him and broke him and broke him and broke him and broke him and broke him and broke him and broke him and broke him and broke him and broke him and broke him and broke him and broke him and broke him and broke him and broke him and broke him and broke him and broke him and broke him and etc.

 

  What is happening?

 

  How?

 

  Why?

 

  “I just… want… my reflexes back.”

 

  “I don’t understand.”

 

  “Who are you?”

 

  Though the voice might have said I’m Mu.

  Fabler thought he had his eyes open and then he actually opened his eyes and discovered himself on the floor, lying on his side and clutching his knees. He stretched out of the fetal position and looked at his watch.

  Ten to thirteen hundred.

  Fabler rolled to his feet, grabbed the waste basket, and washed it out in the shower. His movements were steady and his head was clear.

  He wadded up four wet pieces of toilet paper into goopy balls, then juggled for a full minute.

  “I’m okay.”

  No voices answered.

  So maybe I really am okay.

  Fabler hoped that was so.

  He brushed his teeth, then headed for the motel pool.

  JOAN

  The Tumbleweed Motel – New Mexico

  In the humid, acrid pool area, which was the worst meeting room in the history of meeting rooms, Tom tried to meet Joan’s eyes, and she intentionally turned away. Again.

  He needs to man-up and come to me and apologize.

  Or maybe I need to woman-up and go to him and apologize.

  But I’m not even sure what I’m angry about.

  Which, Joan knew, was just her lying to herself.

  It’s not anger. It’s fear.

  I’m scared of losing Tom. Because he’s changed. He’s broken. He’s not the confident, self-assured man I married. He lost his quiet, unshakeable inner-strength. And he may not be able to ever get it back.

  I’m scared that our marriage isn’t strong enough for us to raise a child together.

  I’m scared that I’m so used to feeling loved and protected and safe that I’ve lost my own inner-strength. I used to be fearless.

  Tom is right about my envy and jealousy. When did I start being that person?

  I took chances. I kicked ass.

  Now I’m worried about my work. Worried about my husband. Worried about my marriage.

  And we’re bringing a baby into this chasm of doubt and fear.

  Joan knew she and Tom needed to talk. Possibly with a therapist.

  We have to relearn how to be there for each other.

  We have to relearn how to be strong.

  But instead of dealing with that, Joan and Tom were on yet another insane, dangerous, life-threatening, no-holds-barred adventure. Aided by a colorful ensemble cast of disorganized misfits who did nothing to ease Joan’s insecurities.

  What Tom and I need to do is make an excuse, get out of here, and work on ourselves instead of trying to save other people.

  Because you can’t save someone else until you save yourself. Drowning people pull others down with them.

  Joan glanced at Tom, and this time he turned away.

  This is all going to end badly. I can feel it.

  Or maybe it’s just the baby hormones.

  Thirty-eight more weeks of this? How do other women manage it?

  Elsewhere in the pool area, four different people took a shot at drawing a number 20 on Presley’s foot with a black marker. They got it looking suitably real. Phin had the idea for Presley to dirty up her foot a bit, make it harder to read.

  Then everyone wasted a ridiculous amount of time dividing into teams, which reminded Joan of junior high school, waiting to get picked for gym dodgeball. Grim and Presley thought it best for Team One and Team Two to each have two marksmen with scopes and rifles, and at least two lookouts with starlight binoculars. Fabler, still not present, and Grim, were team leaders and snipers, and the other two were chosen to be Roy and Leo, with Catherine, Joan, Frank, and Sara as back-ups with handguns.

  “Leo is an excellent shot, though I’ve beaten him on the range about sixty-percent of the time,” Catherine humble-bragged. “But lying there peering through a scope for hours is so hideously boring. I’ll be fine with my Ed Brown Special Forces Carry 1911. Have you shot .45s, Joan? You’re on the diminutive side, so maybe you’re more comfortable with 9mms?”

  “I can handle anything you can, Catherine.”

  “So it seems.” Catherine winked at Tom.

  Tom seemed to wither. Then he squared his shoulders. “So let’s find a team for Abe.”

  The silence deafened.

  “Don’t everyone fight over me,” Abe admonished. “It’s embarrassing.”

  “Phin and I already took Harry.” Jack held up an index finger. “Our limit is one comedy sidekick.”

  “I’m not the sidekick.” Harry jammed his thumb into his chest repeatedly. “I’m the hero. Besides, when was the last time the three of us caught up? I have so much stuff to catch you guys up on. Like when I had sex with that trapeze artist. She was a real swinger.”

  “We’ll trade Harry for Abe,” Phin said.

  Both Harry and Abe yelled, “Hey!” in unison.

  Eerie.

  “You’re welcome to join our team,” Tom told Abe.

  “And voluntarily march into the secret hidden compound patrolled by forty armed guards? I’d rather eat all the hair off my ass. I’ll join whatever team Leonidas is on.”

  “Leo’s with me,” Catherine smiled big. “I can’t bear to let him out of my sight.”

  Tom looked at Joan, hopeful.

  “Joan?” Tom asked. “Infiltration party?”

  “Do you want me to come with you?”

  All he has to do is say yes.

  Just say yes.

  Tom began to answer, but nothing came out.

  “I’ll join Leo’s team,” Joan decided.

  And just like that, Tom chickened out, and then I chickened out.

  He hurt me. So I’m trying to hurt him.

  We’re not acting like partners. We’re not acting like we love each other.

  How are we ever going to get through this?

  “I’m also with Leo’s team.” Fabler entered the pool area, a spring in his step.

  Grim brightened up at Fabler’s appearance. “So then it’s me, Frank, Sara, and Roy.”

  “I’ll be on your side,” Van replied to Grim. “I can’t shoot, but I can do that lookout thing.”

  They don’t seem happy to have him on their team. Maybe Van is a brilliant, tortured artist, lacking in social skills.

  Or maybe he’s a dangerous lunatic.

  Stosh strutted over, sticking his long beak in Joan’s face, demanding to be petted. She scratched his head, missing her dog, Stallone.

  “Feel like you shouldn’t be here?” she whispered to the bird. “Me too.”

  Grim and Harry had brought supplies, and they passed around weapons, optics, and communication devices.

  “The earpieces are PTT,” Harry explained. “Push To Talk. They fit in your earhole. So small they won’t be noticed. No extra microphone, it’s all contained in that one small unit through the wonder of costing a fortune. Don’t lose them, or I’ll invoice you. They work like walkie-talkies, and when you press the little button in the center you broadcast to everyone. They transmit over your cell network, so they need to be synced to your phone. Since we got so many people, identify yourself before talking, and only talk when absolutely necessary. Unless you’re talking dirty.”

  “I want to be Beaver Hunter 69,” Abe decided. “Unless someone else is taking that name.”

  No one else took that name.

  Tom raised his hand. “Anyone have an extra cell phone? I lost mine jumping off a building while running from the Tony Mafia.”

  “They’re scary,” Abe said.

  “I always carry a few burner phones with me,” Harry volunteered. “I like to sext myself.”

  “Can you erase the pics before you loan it to me?”

  “I can. But I won’t. That one that looks like a starfish? It’s not a starfish.”

  Joan, Tom, and Roy had brought along their own guns and ammo. Contrary to what she’d said to Catherine, Joan actually did own a 9mm. An FNP, the only commercial semi-automatic that had a sixteen round magazine. A standard .45 held eight to ten rounds in a standard mag, unless you bought something that extended several inches out of the butt, throwing the balance off and making the carry awkward. Joan preferred to make sixteen big holes instead of ten slightly bigger holes.

  Joan got her hands on an earpiece, some binoculars, a GPS watch, and some energy bars and bottles of water. As the boys divvied up rifles and scopes and night vision binoculars, McGlade produced a mysterious and expensive-looking black box.

  “No op can be complete without this bad boy,” Harry bragged.

  Abe craned up his long neck, trying to get a better look. “And what’s that?”

  “The XG5 Volcano Reactor,” Harry proudly answered.

  “Whoa. You actually have an XG5 Volcano Reactor?” Abe asked.

  “I do.”

  “What’s an XG5 Volcano Reactor?” Abe asked.

  “It’s a heated travel mug that keeps my coffee at a perfect one hundred and sixty-two degrees Fahrenheit.”

  “Why can’t you just drink it fast?” Jack asked.

  “Or cold?” Phin added.

  “Apparently neither of you are coffee connoisseurs, like yours truly.”

  “Connoisseur?” Jack snorted. “When we were partners and on stakeout, you used to drink day-old lukewarm coffee out of the same plastic bottle you pissed in.”

  “First of all, I rinsed out the bottle first. So quit acting like you’re about to throw up, Bert.”

  Bert did look like he was about to throw up.

  “Second, that was decades ago, before I knew better. With the XG5 Volcano Reactor, my coffee can maintain excellency for a full twenty-four hours. Well worth the four hundred and sixty dollar price tag.”

  “Five hundred bucks could supply a town in Ghana with fresh water for a year,” Presley said.

  “But could it maintain that water at exactly one hundred and sixty-two degrees? No. It could not. Besides, you never know when this gadget may surprisingly save our lives.”

  “It won’t save our lives,” Jack said.

  Phin raised his hand. “I’ll second that.”

  “Well, fuck you both in the stink hoop. When it rises to the occasion and defeats evil, I expect you to apologize to the XG5 Volcano Reactor and kiss its ceramic-coated, fully-insulated ass.”

  “Won’t happen,” Jack said.

  Phin raised his hand. “I’ll second that.”

  “You philistines lack the imagination to wallow in self-indulgent hedonism. I bet you’ve never even tried the best coffee in the world.”

  “I’m afraid to ask,” Joan said, afraid to ask, mostly because extending this inanity seemed pointless, “but what is the best coffee in the world?”

  “Hand-selected kopi luwak coffee. Five hundred bucks a pound.”

  “Five hundred bucks could—”

  Harry cut Presley off. “Yes, we all know how many underprivileged lives it can improve. I know philanthropy. I gave over six figures to charity last year.”

  “I’ll bite,” Roy said. “What charity?”

  “SWSC. Obviously.”

  Jack winced. “You’re going to make us ask what that is, aren’t you?”

  “Happy to share a worthwhile cause, Jackie. It’s the world-renowned, tax-exempt organization Strippers Without Sports Cars. Can you believe that some of the most beautiful people on the planet still drive to work in a Hyundai?”

  “I’m as shocked as the next guy,” Phin said.

  “Attractive people should be able to drive the cars that reflect them,” Catherine opined. “I bought Leo a McLaren 675LT. Anything less would be barbaric.”

  “Catherine made me who I am,” Leo said. “Literally. She’s the most amazing woman ever.”

  Catherine giggled. “Oh, stop it.”

  Joan wished they would both stop it.

  If forced to testify in a court of law, Joan would have admitted a slight attraction to Leo the first few interactions she’d had with him. And being in the cockpit, assisting with the plane landing, had been a heady experience. But those schoolgirl crush feelings had faded in direct correlation with how much the man talked.

  He’s boring. Not just boring. Perfunctory. Soulless. Robotic.

  The sex might be fantastic. The pillow talk would definitely be cringe.

  And the relationship would be terrible.

  Joan stole another look at Tom, who was futzing with a walkie-talkie.

  But maybe I’m not the right person to judge relationships.

  “I want to get back to the five hundred dollar coffee,” Bert said.

  “Yeah,” Phin agreed. “Because this hasn’t gone on long enough.”

  McGlade grinned. “Happy to go into excruciating detail. The Asian palm civet cat is an adorable little creature that looks like a weasel. It eats coffee cherries. After they go through the animal’s digestive system, which vastly reduces the coffee beans’ acidity, they are harvested and sold.”

  “So the civets eat the beans?” Bert asked. “Then they poop them out?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you drink that?”

  “Yes.”

  “You drink cat shit?” Bert’s coloring, already unhealthy, grew even paler.

  “Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it,” Harry said. “It’s worth every penny. You know how long it takes to collect all of those beans? Hunting through the rain forest, searching for the right kind of feces? That’s a labor-intensive job. And stinky. And coffee that high-class needs to be maintained at a proper sipping temperature.”

  “The science makes makes makes sense,” Frank opined. “Though I’d be wary of viral zoological spillover causing a pandemic.”

  “The beans are roasted, which probably kills the germs, maybe,” McGlade told him. “Also, we all know that the really dangerous viruses are the ones that escape from labs.”

  “Have you guys heard about that Covid thing in Wuhan?” Grim asked. “I got a feeling that’s going to be big. Could affect all of our lives.”

  “I’m sure the governments of the world, which have our best interests at heart, will take care of it quickly.” When no one responded to Sara, she said, “That was sarcasm.”

  “Got any of that weasel brew?” Abe asked.

  “I’ll pass out sticks,” Phin suggested. “We can all take turns beating this dead horse.”

  “I always travel with a few pounds of kopi luwak. I’d be happy to share some with you when this endless meeting is over. When does the action start? So far this is boring as hell.”

  “McGlade is right,” Fabler announced. “Not about the ridiculous amount of money he wastes on coffee and coffee accessories. That’s just straight-up insanity. But he’s right about starting the action. Let’s get on the road, people. Bert, give Jack the County Clerk information, and keep your phone on. Put your earpieces in and sync with your Bluetooth.”

  Bert raised his hand. “I thought the radios don’t work underground.”

  “They won’t, at first,” Presley explained. “But once I hack the Wi-Fi, I can bridge our comms into their network.”

  Fabler came up to Bert and clapped him on the shoulder. “Until then, we won’t be able to communicate with you guys. So try not to get killed.”

  Everyone finally got up and headed for the three pool exits. Joan searched for Tom, and saw the back of his head as he walked out.

  I guess we’ll sort this all out when the mission is over.

  We’ll have time when we get back to the motel. Or on the plane, going home.

  Unless something goes wrong.

  But with this many competent people working on this rescue, what’s the worst that can happen?

  “I have a feeling this will end in a bloodbath,” McGlade confided in Joan as they headed for the vehicles.

  “Why?”

  “Because these crazy adventures always wind up with a bunch of people dying badly. Though, not to be morbid, I’m ready for some action after that endless infodump.”

  “You act like you’re a fictional character.”

  “Aren’t we all?” Harry opined. “If you think about it, we’re each the protagonist in the story of our life. Everyone else is a supporting cast member. Some are extras. Some are cameos. Some are co-stars. But there is only one hero. I’m the hero in my life. You’re the hero in yours. We both get to make up our lives as we see fit. The Latin root, fictiō, means to shape or form. Isn’t that what we’re doing? Making decisions and choices that form and shape our lives?”

  “But we don’t always get a choice. Things happen to us that are beyond our control.”

  “Are you saying that if you were writing your life, you’d write it differently?”

  Joan considered the wisdom in that statement.