"That's it," Montoya said pleasantly.

"Good deal. Should see you in ten or fifteen minutes, if I don't get lost." / could imitate that voice in my sleep Henry thought with a grin as he broke the connection.

"This makes my place look like a rathole," Henry said with feeling as he stared around the middle-class apartment. Looks like he's about twenty-five Henry said to himself, then grinned broadly as he stared at the younger man's left hand. "You've obviously never been married," Henry said as he slipped his third finger through the loop of the leather sap he carried in his hip pocket. Montoya laughed.

"Gringa girls from the University think Shawn muy exotico," he said with an exaggerated Speedy Gonzales accent, then switched back to his normal voice. "Can I get you something to drink?"

"Whatever you're having." Montoya turned towards the kitchen as Henry pulled the lead-filled weapon from his pocket. In a fluid motion very similar to throwing a baseball, Henry Bowman snapped his wrist as he brought the sap down on the back of Montoya's head. The ATF agent fell like a marionette whose strings had been cut. Henry slipped the sap back in his pocket and bent over to inspect his work.

In the movies, this guy would wake up with a headache Henry thought with a sardonic smile. He well knew that any impact to the head forceful enough to knock a person unconscious was, by definition, almost strong enough to kill him. Henry had put every bit of his substantial upper-body strength into the blow he had delivered. He slid the dead man's wallet, keys, and credentials out of his pockets, then pulled a pair of thin cotton socks out of his own jacket and slipped them on his hands.

It took less than three minutes for Henry to dump out every drawer in the place, empty the closet, throw every chair cushion on the floor, and leave the refrigerator/freezer open and unplugged. Then he reached for the telephone. Time for an appearance from Rich Little Henry thought as he dialed a number from his notebook.

On the third call, he found another Chicago ATF agent who was home alone that evening. "Damn, that was fast," Ray said as Henry slid into the passenger seat of the rented Buick. "Nice hat." Henry had on one of Montoya's hats he'd found in the man's closet. The brim was pulled down and it obscured much of his face, "Make a right out of the lot, then go straight 'til you hit Madison. Should be ten or twelve blocks." Ray nodded and slowly pulled out of the supermarket parking lot.

Perfect Henry thought as the door opened to let him in. The man before him was in his fifties and was the fattest person Henry had seen in more than a month. He was holding a thick sandwich in his left hand. His jaws moved methodically.

"You must be Getz," the man said around his food, then swallowed and smiled. Henry was starting to unfold his wallet to display Wilson Blair's badge, but the obese agent waved his hand. "Pancho Villa explained everything, said you were on your way. C'mon in." He motioned Henry into the apartment.

"Hope this isn't inconvenient for you," Henry said with what he hoped was the right blend of apology and disinterest. "I won't take long, and then you can get back to your family." Getz waved a hand.

"Sharon won't be back from bingo for a couple hours, kids're grown and moved out. Have a seat while I go to the kitchen," he said as he turned around. "You want a beer?" he asked over his shoulder. "I got Stag, and I think a Schae-"

The rest of the man's sentence was cut off as Henry Bowman wrapped his arms around the obese agent's body and clamped his fists into the man's chest. The electronic stun gun in Henry's right hand sent 90,000 volts into the ATF man's central nervous system. The agent collapsed in a 440-pound heap with Henry on top of him.

Lucky he didn't break my damn arm Henry thought as he let go of the stun gun and extricated his right arm from beneath the agent's bulk. The man's head was turned to the side. His jaw was working but no sound came out. Bits of chewed sandwich fell from his mouth onto the carpet.

Henry reached into his own inside jacket pocket and grabbed the wooden handle of the icepick. He had used a section of plugged rubber fuel line to cover the steel shaft, and this sheath stayed inside his pocket as he withdrew the tool from his coat. Before the agent could see what was happening, Henry slid the icepick straight into the man's ear and smacked the butt of the wooden handle with the heel of his hand. The metal ferrule clamped around the base of the tapered 6" shaft bottomed inside the agent's ear.

A look of surprise came over the man's face, and he made a hissing noise in the back of his throat. Henry smacked the side of the icepick's handle several times with his fist, pounding in a different direction with each blow. A stench suddenly filled the air. The man was dead. The smell was much worse than when Agent Montoya had died. Like that's a big surprise Henry thought grimly as he withdrew the icepick.

No blood he noticed with detachment. The steel shaft was wet with clear cerebrospinal fluid. Henry slid the icepick back into the rubber tube in his jacket and reached into his pants for a piece of cellophane. He unwrapped the plastic and exposed the lump of 50/50 Alox/beeswax cast bullet lube, which he then smeared into the dead man's ear canal. Henry was careful not to let his fingers touch the brown, waxy material, lest he leave prints. He twisted the corpse's head enough to perform the same procedure in the opposite orifice, then put the remainder of the bullet lube back in his pocket.

Henry sat up straight and surveyed his work. Analysis'll show that stuff's not a product of the human body, but I doubt the coroner will bother Henry thought. Looks like any other fat guy with ear wax whose heart let go. He considered for a moment whether multiple deaths would arouse suspicion, then mentally shrugged. Pretty soon they'll know they 're all executions. Still best to keep the methods different.

Henry climbed off the huge mass and walked to the door to the apartment. He cracked it open, using the tail of his sport coat to prevent his skin from touching the doorknob. No one was in the hallway. Henry let himself out, made sure the door locked behind him, and walked out to the street.

Twenty-four he said to himself with grim satisfaction. And the day is far from over.

"Who can we get?" FBI Director Roland Lemp asked. "President wants a meeting in two hours and I damn well intend to have a good field agent along to take the heat. Got to be somebody has some experience on this gun stuff, but nobody that was part of that Waco disaster." Lemp sucked his teeth. "We have anybody around here with experience on that Idaho thing in '92? Anybody besides the sniper, I mean?"

"I doubt it, sir. I'll check the agent transfer records, but I don't think any of the local agents we've got here now were stationed in Idaho then. They did pull some men from other areas, but from around here? I don't think so. Wait a minute. That sex harassment course they're running this week at Quantico-there's agents from all over. Might find an experienced man in there, someone who was on the Ruby Ridge detail. Want me to check it out?"

"Yeah, and if there are any, check their files and get back to me before you call down there. I'd rather go it alone than find out too late I'm carrying extra baggage. If we find someone who reads clean, let's get him out of whatever class he's in and get him up here."

"Yessir."

"Mr. President? You said to wake you if there were any more...messages from this Wilson Blair."

"Exactly right. Has there been another?" he asked softly through the gap in the bedroom door. He did not want to wake his wife.

"This was distributed over the Internet some time in the last few hours." The Secret Service agent handed the Chief Executive the sheet of paper.

"Thanks, Ron," The President said. "Tell them I'll be there in twenty minutes." The agent nodded once and left.

The President began to read the message. The Secret Service agent had treated it like a privileged communique, but in fact it was already in tens of thousands of households across the nation. The President grimaced as his tired eyes finally focused on the paper. He was still not used to the concept of instantaneous national distribution of information by any person with access to a personal computer and a phone line.

Post-Op Briefing

by Wilson Blair

To those of you who took my last message to heart, a quick critique: Good jobs in Houston, Little Rock, and Pittsburgh. Keep at it and they'll eventually get the message. I've heard rumors that some of them want immunity, and we're working on how to deal with that issue.

Some of you other guys obviously want to be famous more than you want to be successful. A standard velocity .22 on the way to work in the morning is smart. An icepick in a movie theater is smart. An AK in an office at the Federal Building is stupid. If you need a complete instruction set, you shouldn't be tackling this kind of project. On a more upbeat note, I hear noises that some of you want to cast the net wider. Sounds good to me, just use sensible tactics.

END.

"Immunity?" the President asked himself aloud. He folded the sheet of paper and closed the door softly so as not to wake his wife. She was still not used to emergencies cropping up at odd hours of the night. He wondered what the Internet author was talking about as he went back into his bedroom to shower and get dressed.

He knew it was going to be a very long day.

"Any problems?" Henry asked as Allen Kane slid into the booth across from him. He spoke softly without moving his lips very much.

"Just been shooting up your ammo," Kane said with a smile.

"Won't bitch at you for that. This time," he added with a raised eyebrow.

"How 'bout you-things go okay?" Allen Kane sounded concerned.

"Yeah. Better than I expected, actually." Henry took a deep drink of water. "Old Z-1 ran like a clock both ways." Mention of the motorcycle made him remember something. "You get a two-by-twelve to use for a ramp, and some tie-downs?"

"They're in the truck." Allen looked at his friend closely. He felt a sense of energy in Henry that was stronger than usual. "You seem more keyed-up than before." Henry nodded.

"Ray had some things to say that made me, ah...revise my immediate plans. I'll tell you about it later, see what you think."

"You want to head home today? Take turns and drive straight through? We could make it to your place by late tomorrow night-the truck's all loaded." Henry looked at the clock on the wall and considered the suggestion.

"Yeah," he said, his mind made up. "Let's do that. I'll meet you out of town, we'll roll the bike in the back where no one can see us do it. First, though, I want to eat. Lost my appetite the last couple of days, but it's come back with a vengeance. Does this place have steaks for breakfast?"

"We can find out," Allen answered as he picked up a menu.

"Charlie, I don't know any more about this than I did when you called half an hour ago, and I-" "Sir?" the subordinate interrupted.

"Hold on a second," Dwight Greenwell said into the phone, then covered the mouthpiece as he looked up at the agent standing in his office doorway. "What?"

"Sir, they've found another one."

"Where?" he demanded. Greenwell's flared nostrils showed his rage, but the ATF Director did his best to hold it in check. He was too professional to shoot the messenger.

"Outside Pittsburgh, sir. An Agent Karbo. They foun-"

"Pittsburgh!" Greenwell almost yelled. He composed himself, took his hand off the phone's mouthpiece, and spoke into the instrument. "Charlie, I'll have to call you back." The Director hung up the phone and glared at the agent. "Talk."

"Police in Pennsylvania got a call there was a wrecked car upside down in a ravine. When they got to it, there was no sign of a driver. Wrecker was winching it up the hill, the trunk popped open, and Agent Karbo's body fell out. Hands were bound behind him with a coat hanger, and he'd been shot once with a .22 behind the ear. Cops checked the vehicle's VIN number, it was Karbo's agency car."

"I don't suppose the forensic guys got anything," Greenwell said, rubbing the bridge of his nose. The agent shook his head.

"No, sir. Not with all the people tramping around, and the car was wiped clean. Police even checked for prints on the inside of the trunk, but..." he shrugged, indicating there had been nothing to find.

"Sir," Greenwell's secretary's voice crackled over the intercom. "The President's on Line Four." "Got some newspapers," Henry said as he climbed into the elevated cab of the 2 1/2-ton army truck.

"I'll trade you," Allen said as he reached for the USA Today and handed Henry a hamburger. "Have they got that idiot Michael Gartner in there again, bleating for the repeal of the Second Amendment?" He looked at the paper's headline.

ATF Death Toll Continues To Rise

Suspect In Tibbs Killing Released "Looks like they caught some guy and let him go," Allen said. "Says here, 'A man detained in Tuesday's killing of Ronald Tibbs has been released from custody and is no longer a suspect...'" Kane read aloud. "Says this guy got pulled over for speeding, cop noticed a 'strong gasoline smell', found a pressurized weed sprayer full of unleaded in the back of his car. Hmmm... 'Also in the suspect's vehicle was piece of notebook paper with the names and home addresses of four local ATF agents handwritten in blue ink.' I wonder why blue is significant," he added.

"Means the guy doesn't have a printer for his computer," Henry said. "Why did he put gasoline in a weed sprayer?"

"Let's see. 'Bomb and arson specialists say Tillotson intended to use the weed sprayer as a homemade flamethrower. "He had it all planned out," one officer said, who asked that his name not be relea-'" "A homemade flamethrower!" Henry broke in. "Even Ragnar Benson wouldn't try that! Where's this guy from, Arkansas?" Allen Kane looked up.

"You already read the story," he said accusingly, then turned his attention back to the article.

"'Agent Tibbs' name, address, and unlisted telephone number were written on the paper found in Tillotson's vehicle, along with those of three other agents. A large "X" was drawn through Tibbs' name, and authorities initially considered Tillotson a prime suspect in the June 15 murder. At the time of the slaying, however, Tillotson was attending a wedding seventy miles away in Hagenport. "It was just a coincidence" the arresting officer said. Tillotson was fined $250 for unsafe storage of a flammable substance and released.'"

"So somebody beat him to it?" Henry asked.

"Looks that way. Says here 'Related Editorial, ISA'." Allen Kane turned the paper over and folded out the back page.

Today's Debate:

Terror On The Information Highway

Should Internet Access Be Restricted?

"Now they're talking about closing off the Internet," Kane said.