John swore and quickly reached for his sidearm when he saw two black men heading to his table.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” said a tall thin man with them sporting a brown leather peacoat. "Not unless you want to be the reason these innocent people have a very unpleasant evening."
Two others approached him from the rear entrance. One of his henchmen, who couldn’t be older than twenty put a hand on John's shoulder and slightly opened his bomber jacket, revealing a full auto sub-compact Mac-11. John took an exasperated breath and opened the flap of his black suit jacket. The man discreetly removed the weapon from John’s holster and handed it to the gentleman in the peacoat.
“Woo-wee,” he whooped as he slid into the booth. “My man; Captain John Hemingway! Homie got him a Sig MK25 Navy Pistol with a laser and hair-trigger. Even with no money, bro still is stompin’ with the big dogs.”
The man with the Mac-11 sat down beside John and told him to be cool. The other two leaned on the booth, drawing uncomfortable stares from all around.
“Khalif Miles,” John muttered. “Where did you..." John stopped and looked around. "How did you find me?"
The dapper neatly trimmed man seemingly bewildered by his question glanced at his men and burst into laughter.
“How did I find you?” he chuckled and laid John’s weapon in front of him. "Now that is a very dumb question, Cap. You might not be at the top of the GRA’s most wanted list anymore more, but you still make the news. I heard about your little dust-up in Virginia. Tall white male in his mid-forties, about two hundred twenty-five pounds fighting in a bar in Richmond? Is it true you took down three bounty hunters?”
“No," John said, peeved. "Just two. I chased the third guy away. But what does that have to do with-
“Didn't I tell y'all this guy is the real deal?" Miles chuckled and glanced at his men. "Or maybe he once was. Maybe he’s lost a step. I find you sitting here at an angle where you can't cover both exits?” Miles shook his head. "You're slipping, man. It must be all this good eating.”
“You make it a habit of taking food off people’s plates?” John said when Miles grabbed a slice of bacon.
Miles savored the bacon and groaned with pleasure. “Umm-um. Now that's some darn good bacon.” He turned to one of his men, leaning on the booth. “Yo, I haven’t had food this good since Big Mama’s house.” The young man pointed at Miles and nodded in agreement.
“Oh yeah,” he replied. We had some good times at her crib?” he replied.
“Heck yeah,” Miles said. “You remember we used to pack the car on Saturday mornings and go over there, and she had pancakes stacked so high-
“Miles, Miles, Miles!” John said, raising his voice.
Miles recoiled and his smile faded from his face and his eyes filled with violent rage.
“I am having what you would call a very bad day. I just buried my wife. Now you're going to tell me what it is you want. Then you're going to get up and walk out that door. And if I catch you back in here again...”
His voice trailed off when Miles pulled out a Swiss army knife and stuck the tip of it under the table against John’s upper thigh.
“Who do you think you are talking to me like?" he growled. “Huh? Don’t let these chiseled good looks and easy-going personality fool you. I will still slice your butt six ways from Sunday. You must have forgotten who I am. You're playing with fire."
John took a deep breath and calmed his nerves. The grief he endured over losing Sasha, as well as his rocky relationship with Claire, had dulled his senses to the point that he didn't care what happened to him. But as angry as he was, it would be selfish to put innocent lives in danger.
He put up his hands. "Alright, I surrender," he said in a mocking tone. "Just tell me what you want."
Miles flashed his trademark charming smile and removed his knife from John’s thigh. “See, that wasn’t so hard was it.” He nodded to the young man with the Mac-11 who sat beside him. The boy reached into his jacket and removed a slip from the inner breast pocket.
“What’s this?” John said when the boy handed it to him.
“It’s paper,” Miles retorted. “Read it.”
John skimmed over the document and froze. “This is an insurance claim for my wife. How did you get a copy of this?”
“Must we go through this again, Cap? You already know who I am and what I am capable of. As far as you’re concerned, I’m a god. I know all and see all you do.”
"I don’t care what you call yourself. How did you get this? This is private property and you-"
"Who the heck cares how I got it?" Miles said, his veins tightening in his head. "That’s two bars on that paper; two mill. Now what I want to know is why you haven’t gone to collect? We know you're hard up for cash."
"You mean why haven't I traveled across the states to California with no food, money, or transportation; not to mention that Pasadena is the capital of the GRA? What is it to you anyway? You think because you and Sasha have a past, that somehow you're entitled to a share of the money?"
Miles shrugged his shoulders and shook his head furiously to convey his shock at John's challenge. “Um… Let me answer your questions in the order to which you asked; yes, not my problem and hell yes! I'm entitled to all of it."
"Is this joke? Am I being punked right now?"
"I've been punking you your whole life, Cap, but that's beside the point."
“What if I say no."
"Oh, I’m sorry. Were you under the impression that you had a choice? A long time ago I promised you that if anything ever happened to Hadiya Kamaria that you would answer to me. She died because you failed to protect her. The way I see it, you owe me and my people."
"Hadiya Kamaria died the day we said I do. Sasha Hemingway, my wife died because I listened to you and went to New York. You led me on a wild goose chase, hunting down some witch doctor you said could cure her radiation poisoning."
"Hey, I didn't know he was a nutjob. I wasn't the one who shot him."
"The man aimed an AK-47 at me. Look, what does it matter? I don't have the resources to get to California."
"That insurance policy is the only thing standing between you, me, and a bullet."
"You’re not getting one red cent from me. So, if you’re going to shoot me, go ahead and get it over with."
Miles leaned back and caressed John's weapon. He took the Sig MK25 and began twirling it on the table.
"You know, Cap I’ve always admired you, man,” he said quietly. "You don't fear anything. Not even death. That’s why I started calling you "The White Terror. You’re many things, Cap but a coward?” He shook his head and giggled. “Nah, man. But at the risk of sounding like one of those weird super-villains from a cheesy spy thriller, there are things far worse than death; like what could happen to a poor, unsuspecting, fine, black beauty who hates her father.”
It struck John that he shouldn’t have been surprised by how low Miles was willing to sink. This was the same man he watched slaughter a Prince and his family in Dubai, and let his men gang-rape a young Asian whistleblower in Singapore to send a message to those trying to expose him and the Akachi Tribe. If this lunatic was hinting that he would hurt Claire, then all hell would break loose. He didn’t care that he was surrounded by Miles’ men.
“You might want to choose your next words carefully, Miles,” John said, seething. "You’re the one who’s playing with fire.”
“You know, when Claire was a kid, I wished I was her daddy. She was intelligent, fun-loving, and her innocence reminded me of a more peaceful time. But now that little CW is all grown up?” Miles licked his lips and made a sign to indicate Claire’s pear-shaped body and thick legs. “I wanna be her daddy in a different way. Baby got back!”
Miles men laughed and high fived one another. Without a moment’s hesitation, John grabbed the back of the guy’s head next to him and slammed it on the table. With his free hand, he backhanded Miles in the mouth. Then he rammed the boy's head a second and third time.
Miles desperately reached for John’s sidearm on the table, but the ex-Navy Seal smartly disarmed him and aimed it at his face. At the same time, Miles went for his Ruger and the two stood face to face, staring down the barrels of one another’s guns. John grabbed the incapacitated man he drove into the table around his throat and pulled him in between them. The two remaining thugs pointed their weapons at him and shouted for him to let the boy go.
Miles laughed out loud. "Whew!" he gasped. "Now y’all know why I love this guy. The White Terror strikes again." He pointed at the young man John accosted. "Let him go, John, he's just a kid."
"Then you shouldn't have brought him into a man's world," John muttered.
“Look here, Cap, I realize I’m talking to a crazy man but-"
Suddenly, they heard the sound of a gun clicking behind them. John turned and couldn't believe his eyes. Margaret had emerged from behind the counter, pointing a double-barrel shotgun at the men.
"Whoa-whoa-whoa-whoa!" Miles shouted, turning his gun on her. "What the heck you doing? Lady are you crazy?"
"I'm gon' show you how crazy I can be in about five seconds," she said. "I don't have much in this life, but this diner is mine and I will defend it. Now unless y'all want to be a decoration oh my wall you get yo' niggas and get out. Now!" She cocked her gone and prepared to fire.
"Oh, real cute, Granny,” Miles said. "You gonna cock that weapon like we in some cheap Hollywood western for dramatic effect? Probably ain't even loaded. You do realize you're outgunned three to two, right? Four to two if that idiot over there gets it together." He glared at the lad caught up in John's iron grip. "Hey, idiot! Get it together!"
Suddenly, they heard more guns clicking and cocking behind them. John peered around Miles to see that six of the customers in the diner had drawn their weapons and pointed them at Miles and his men. A middle-aged stocky bald man walked up and pointed a Smith and Wesson 45 in the small of Miles’ back.
“Aw hell no,” Miles said, exasperated.
“Just take it easy, son,” the man said, his Texas accent giving him away. “Now let’s do this nice and slow. Put your gun on the table and the rest of y'all do the same.”
“Screw you, Pops,” said Miles. “I don’t lay my weapon down for no one.” A mischievous smile spread across his face. “Except maybe for yo mama.”
“Hey!” a young lady sporting a tie-dye shirt said, aiming her weapon at Miles’ chest. “Do as Bill told you, or we’ll start capping in here.”
“Lady please, “Miles’ chortled. “Save that butch talk for yo’ crackhead boyfriend. You don’t scare me.”
“Hey!" John shouted, pointing his MK25 at the boy’s head. He had heard enough. “You think this is a game? Miles, you got five seconds. You know what comes next!”
“Hey, yo man,” the boy struggled to speak. "Get this fool off me.”
“Five,” John began counting. In his state of mind, he wasn't sure if he was bluffing. Even as a Seal, John was led by his convictions. Sasha had kept him grounded, and he made certain that he and his men only pulled the trigger if necessary. But the war and losing his wife had stripped him of all but a thin veil of sanity. Would he shoot a boy in the head to send a message? He just might.
“Man, you done finally lost it,” Miles yelled. “You gonna mess with me?”
“Four," John barked, moving his gun to the boy's throat.
"John," Margaret whispered.
"Hey," Miles pointed at him. "I'm telling you now. You're making the biggest mistake of your life."
"Three." The room seemed to slow down and everything went dark. John caressed underneath the trigger with his forefinger. Miles was leaving him with no choice. We would do whatever it took to send a message to any man threatening his daughter.
"John, no" Margaret said. "He's just a boy."
"Two.”
“Alright, alright, alright,” Miles said. “I’m putting it down. See?” He laid his Ruger on the table. “What are you fools waiting on?” he barked to his men. “Put em’ down.” They seemed to hesitate as if unsure of what to do. “I said put them down, now!” Miles shouted.
“Do it!” John boomed; his loud voice frightening the patrons.
The boys did as they were told and backed up to where Miles stood.
“Alright, now you, Cap,” Miles said to John. “Release the boy.”
“Let him go, John,” Margaret said, this time more authoritatively.
John glanced at her and then back at Miles. He released his iron grip and shoved the young man toward his group. “Now get out before I change my mind.”
“Fine, we’re leaving,” Miles said, straightening up his peacoat. “Bill,” he nodded to the stocky Texan. "That's what butch lady called you, right? It’s been a pleasure knowing your name, Pops.”
Bill glanced at Margaret and then at John. “I’m not sure what that means, but you better skedaddle.”
Miles smirked and nodded. “Skedaddle, right. And John-boy, you know what time it is. We'll see each other again; assuming, of course, I don’t happen to run into Claire first.”
He made a gun sign with his finger and pointed at Bill before heading out the door.
“Is everyone ok?” Margaret called out.
Bill headed to the exit and looked out the door to make certain that Miles had left. “That’s right,” he called after him. “You came to the wrong spot. Go on now. Skedaddle.”
John headed Miles fire an indiscriminate remark back at him.
“Oh, yeah?” Bill replied. “Your Mammy. Trust me, son. You ain’t ready. I’m from Texas. We shoot first and ask questions-
“Tex!" John called after him. “Are you an idiot? Get in here.”
“Oh, gee,” Bill retorted. "Thanks Bill for having my back. Oh, you’re welcome, John. Let me treat you to a slice of pie.” He then came back in, stifling an expression as if he had enjoyed that confrontation. John had always known him to be a bit of a loose cannon, and always looking for a chance to prove that he was Texas-tough.
“Bill,” Margaret asked tenderly. “Take Ms. Sandy home, will you? She’s shaken up and I think she should take the rest of the day off."
“Alright,” he replied. “But Miss Sandy, keep your hands to yourself this time. Besides, I’ve already tasted Domino. I’m looking to sample some brown sugar.” He waited until Margaret turned from hugging the woman that wore the tie-dye shirt.
“You don’t ever quit, do you?” she said above the laughter from the other patrons. "We just stood toe to toe with a crackhead and you still tryna’ come at me. Go on and take Miss Sandy home before I shoot you.”
Bill affected a he-he chuckle and walked Miss Sandy out the door.
***
A young Claire Wren Hemingway ran as fast as her legs could carry. Amidst the frenzy of wide-eyed terror-filled people, the earth-shattering sounds of explosions sent her into a tailspin of paralyzing panic.
“Come, CW!” a young woman said. “Quickly now! Don't look back. We're almost there."
The then eleven-year-old fell to the ground and was nearly trampled by terror-filled people running for their lives. But the woman lifted her off the ground.
"I gotcha," she said soothingly but with urgency in her voice. ‘You're okay. I'm here."
“Aunt Vi, I’m scared,” Claire cried. “Where’s my mom and dad?”
“I don’t know,” the woman said. “But we can’t stay here.”
Suddenly, the ground began to rumble. “What’s that noise?” Claire whimpered.
The woman said nothing. She looked up and down the streets, her eyes filled with fear. “Oh,” she gasped.
The stoplights at the crosswalk swung back and forth so violently, that the cables snapped and they fell to the ground with a thud.
“What is that?” Claire whimpered.
“Shh!” the woman said frantically glancing around. The rumbling grew louder until the ground began to shake.
“Tank!" Claire heard someone scream. “Run! Here they come!”
Sure enough, two tanks came barreling down upon them from the west street.
Claire screamed and the woman took her by the hand. “Let’s go." Hold on to me.”
“Aunt Vi, I’m scared. I don’t want to die.”
“Don’t look up, baby,” the woman said, soothingly, her voice growing eerily calm. "Close your eyes. Don’t look. I’m here. I love you. Tell your mom I’m sorry.”
The sound of the tank blast jolted Claire out of her sleep. Trembling, she took a breath to calm her nerves. She found herself in bed with Otto, who snored so loudly, that she had to roll him on his side to get him quiet.
“Are you kidding me?” she grumbled when she saw that it was dark outside and that the alarm clock on the nightstand next to the bed read 10 pm.
Quietly, Claire removed her covers and gingerly climbed out of bed. “Ach!” she groaned aloud, grabbing her head. "What the heck did Otto give me?" She waited for the pain to subside and slipped on her sleeveless black dress she wore to the funeral.
The young Filipino man stirred and grunted aloud. He turned over and saw Claire getting dressed. “What? Where are you going?”
“I have to get home. My dad’s probably worried sick.”
“So?” Otto said groggily. “You're a grown woman. Let him worry. Come back to bed.”
Claire rolled her eyes. “Have you seen my wallet?”
Otto struggled to sit up and stretched loudly. “Oh God, I’m so tired.”
“How are you tired?” Claire said, turning on the light. “You haven’t done anything all day.” She began rummaging through the piles of clothes strewn all over Otto’s bedroom for her wallet.
He stared at Claire bleary-eyed. “You’re going out there this time of night? It’s dark and cold. Wait, did we even get to… you know?”
“Nope. Where the heck is my wallet? I know I had it with me.”
“So, nothing happened?”
"We hit the bed and started fooling around, and next thing I know, you were out like a light. Minutes later so was I. Whatever it was you gave me, never again."
At age 23, Claire was and insatiably attractive. She was 5’7, had long flowing hair, a toned curvy figure, and deep green eyes. She had a whispery baritone like voice and a beautiful smile.
Otto got out of bed and came around to her side and clasped his arms around her waist. He placed a firm hand on her belly and pulled her body close to his. “Well, I’m awake now. Come on. You’re really going to leave without us having some fun?"
"Whose fault is that, Otto?” she said, peeling him off her. “Maybe next time, you won’t get stoned when there’s a woman whose way out of your league lying in your bed.”
“Wow, so there it is. You’re punishing me for not being at your mother’s funeral.”
“Get over yourself, Cowboy. I’m not punishing you. I came here to play. You wanted to smoke instead, and now I have to go. Accept it.”
“No, you get over yourself, Claire,” Otto barked. “You’re the one running out of here like a scared little…”
“Scared little what?" Claire said. "If you're going to call me a female dog, at least wait until I'm out of the house."
“I’m just saying! I’m sick and tired of you using me.”
Claire chortled. “What? I’m using you?”
“You come over here, crying about what a jerk your dad is, and how mean he is to you. I open up my home and spend my money to make sure you have a good time. And for God knows whatever reason you keep going back to that loser?”
“Hey! Claire shouted. “You have the balls to call somebody a loser? What about you?”
“What about me?”
Claire glanced around the room. “I mean look at this place. You call this a home? It's a mess, you have no real furniture, and all you do is smoke your life away. And yes, my father and I might be dysfunctional but at least we have each other. All you do is hide in this garbage can. I’m sorry if making nookie with you and watching you get high isn’t enough for me anymore. I want more in my life.” She stopped and stared at him. “Otto, I can’t do this anymore. I’m done."
“You know what?” the young man said, incensed. “Go ahead. Get out of my house. Run back home to your crappy life, with your loser dad and your sad little daddy issues. You want to let him control you? Fine by me.” He went to his nightstand and grabbed Claire ’s wallet out of the draw. “There’s your wallet,” he said flinging it at her. "Now get out.”
“Are you kidding me?” Claire said, picking it up off the floor. “Hiding my wallet to keep me here? Yeah what a catch you are, Otto. We are so done."
“Hit me up when your poor old man croaks. Maybe then you can get out from under his shadow.”
“That did it,” Claire said. She picked up a bottle of wine and flung it at Otto, barely missing his head.
“Omg!” he yelled. “Are you crazy? I paid a lot of money for that. Get out of my house!”
When Claire grabbed another bottle, he rushed her and pushed her into the wall. “You’re a crazy black woman,” he yelled.
Claire pushed him off her and slapped him to the floor. “Crazy black woman?” she huffed. She began shoving his items on the floor. She then grabbed the bottle and went over to his stash on the table.
“No, no, no!” he begged, putting up his hands. “Don’t you dare! That’s the good stuff. Claire, don’t.”
“It's destroying your brain,” she yelled. She opened the bottle of wine and poured it on the dope. “That’s what a crazy black woman can do," she said. "You’re welcome.”
“No!” Otto yelled. “What the heck is wrong with you? Get out of my house!" He swore at her and threatened to call the authorities.
“Say goodbye to these thick brown legs,” Claire said, grabbing her coat. With that, she strutted out the door.
***
Margaret was so grateful to her loyal customers for their help that she told them that their meals were all on the house. John worried that she would drive herself into a hole, offering free food to everyone, including himself. After the patrons seemed to regain their bearings, she mosied over to where John sat at the table, his head in his hands. He couldn't stop thinking about the fact that he nearly shot a boy in the throat.
"Hey," she said. "Come on; let's talk."
Reluctantly, John followed her behind the counter through double doors which led to the kitchen. They made their way around a short corridor, and into Margaret’s tiny office.
There was just enough room for them to stand comfortably. Photos of her late husband and children lined the walls. A picture of her late parents and another of her husband lay on her desk next to an open bible. Clutters of papers and books were scattered on a file cabinet and atop a safe in the corner of the room. Margaret returned her shotgun to its rack on the wall and shut the door. She threw up her hands in frustration and glared at John.
“What was all that nonsense?” she said. “If the GRA hear about this ruckus, they liable to come and shut me down.”
John was numb. He didn't have the mental capacity to be lectured by Margaret; at least not today. “The Global Revolution Alliance has far bigger fish to fry than we town folk,” he said flatly.
“We aren’t on the GRA’s most wanted list. You are; and if they find out we haborin’ a fugitive, they’ll hall us all off to be hanged.”
“Alright, Marge. I lost my cool. I was trying to send a message and it backfired.”
“Who were those boys hassling you?”
“They’re your new milkmen,” John said.
“John Hemingway, I don’t got time for your snarky comments. Now tell me who-
“Marge! For the last time, talking about my past is bad for your health. Believe me, I’m trying to protect you.”
Margaret put her hand on her hip and her jaw dropped. “You’re trying to protect me? Honkey, have lost yo’ mind? I won’t the one surrounded by four men with guns. I won’t the one who needed rescuing by a little old woman and six good Samaritans.”
The Navy Seal nodded. “Touché.” He pulled out the copy of his deceased wife’s insurance policy Miles gave him and handed it to Margaret. She stared at him for a moment and then began reading.
“This is an insurance policy for Sasha in the amount of…” Margaret stopped and glanced at her longtime friend, and he nodded. She whipped the paper in front of her and blinked as if she couldn’t believe what she was reading. She paced and read again. “This is two million dollars, John. Sasha opened a policy for two million dollars. Why are you just telling me about this? We could’ve used some of this money to give her a proper burial instead of just some hole in the ground in Blueberry Hill. She deserved far better than that.”
“The policy is all the way in California. I have no way to get there unless they start counting the lint in my pocket as currency. That's why those men were here."
"What do them fools got to do with your wife? How'd they know about this?"
Rage welled inside of John when he thought about what happened between Miles and his wife. When he began investigating Sasha's appearance, it opened the floodgates of a past he never knew about her, including her affairs with Miles.
"The tall man you saw; his name is Khalif Miles. We have an assorted past. Now he thinks I owe him and he's come to collect."
"And let me guess. That little stunt you pulled out there was your way of telling him to piss off."
"Miles threatened to hurt my daughter. I wasn't just going to sit back and just let him control me."
Margaret was about to respond, but stopped and stared at him. A blood-curdling look of fear filled her eyes. A chill went down John's spine.
"Why are you staring at me like that?" John said.
"That boy," Margaret said in a hushed tone. "If this Miles guy hadn't put his gun, would you have... You know?"
John averted his eyes. He started to answer, but the words never came.
"Oh, John," Margaret whispered gravely. "What's happening to you?"
"Life, Marge. Its life."
"No," Margaret said, shaking her head. "This is something bad. You're turning into something you hate. Sasha would not want you to go on, hurtin' like this."
"Well, Sasha isn't here, is she Marge?" John yelled. "She left me. She left me here to suffer. And I deserve it for the way I treated her and Claire."
Margaret shook her head and enveloped him in her arms. "You're not suffering on your own," she said. "We're here to bare this weight with you."
With that, John released the tears that he had been fighting to hold since Sasha's smile was taken from him. He released nearly two years of pint up frustration, confusion, and anger into the bosom of a woman who had proven to be a true friend to him and his family.
"I don't know where my family and I would be without you, Marge," he said. "We're so dysfunctional, it doesn't make sense that you love us the way you do. Thank you."
"We all got something going on, baby," the older woman said. "But it would suck so much worse if we had to endure it alone." She pulled him off her and smiled. "Alright," she sighed. "We don't have time for Dr. Feel Good, right now. She grabbed her shotgun and opened the magazine clip.
“What are you doing?” John said.
“That Miles guy doesn’t strike me as the type who’s willing to let bygones be bygones," she said, removing the slugs and counting them. "He’s sure to come back here, guns a blazing, threatening, and yellin’ like a jackal. We gotta be ready.”
John raised an eyebrow. “And what is that supposed to mean?”
“It means that this restaurant is all I have left, and I’m not about to see it destroyed by some street punk. We’re going to need more heat. Can you loan us some firepower for a while?”
“Whoa, wait a minute," John said. He grabbed Margaret by the arm and turned her toward him. “What are you doing, Marge? You’re going to take on a guy like Khalif Miles? Do you have any idea how crazy that sounds? I can handle this.”
Margaret snickered. “Based on earlier events, I’d say you need all the help you can get.”
“I appreciate your sticking up for me but-
“Stickin’ up for you?” Margaret chuckled. “That’s what we callin’ it?”
“Miles isn’t just some street punk you kicked out of a diner. He’s one of the most dangerous men on the face of this planet. Don’t let his jokester personality fool you. The guy is a sociopath. He’s raped, pillaged, and murdered his way all across this country. Moreover, he’s in bed with the GRA.”
“Oh, hell,” Margaret grumbled. “What did you get us into? We dead for sure now. When he tells the Alliance that you are here, they gon’ kill us all and burn this place to the ground.”
John shook his head. “I don’t see that happening. That’s not his MO. Don’t get me wrong. He’s a vindictive son of a gun, but he’s also an opportunist.
Chances are the GRA doesn’t even know Miles is here. If he wanted to turn me in, he wouldn’t have gone through the trouble of meeting me here. He wants the money from Sasha’s policy. That’s why he didn’t put up much of a resistance earlier. The lest dust he sends up, the better. He’ll behave if he thinks he’s getting what he wants.”
“So, what are you gonna do?”
“I don’t know. Right now, I need to find CW and get her out of here.” He reached in his pocket and pulled out a pager.
“John, let me use mine. You don’t seem to be her favorite person right now.”
Margaret picked up the phone and glanced at John mid-dial.
"Claire knows it’s not your fault what happened to her mother. She’s grieving. Right now, she needs to be mad at someone. She’s got your genes. She’s stubborn as an ox, she’ll come around. She just needs time.”
ns 15.158.61.12da2
