Josh+Slavin+novella

Josh Slavin 5/22/11

Prologue: His eyes flickered open as he slowly woke up. There was light slipping through under a doorway in the corner of the room, but other than that not much was visible. There were no windows and he had no idea how long he had been there, unconscious. He attempted to stand only to realize that his arms were strapped to the chair he was sitting in. He couldn’t remember what happened, he had no recollection of where he was. A sharp pain went through his right hip, and he was slightly dizzy, as if he had been knocked out. For a few moments he waited, trying to get a grip on his situation. Then the door opened, light spilled in, and everything went black.

Chapter 1: Earlier that morning, Max Townsend began his day as he would any other. He had set his alarm for 7:30, even though he didn’t need to get up before 8:00. He hit the snooze button a few times before finally forcing himself out of bed. He dressed in his usual work attire: dark blue pants and t-shirt. He threw on his cap and looked in the mirror, adjusting his San Diego police department badge. Max was a man of average height and was very thin. He was muscular with short, brown hair. He was a very kind man, nice to everyone he met, but there was something mysterious about him. No one could quite figure it out, but it always felt like, for whatever reason, he was holding something back. Though his interactions with people would indicate otherwise, he was secretly very pessimistic, always thinking something was wrong. Perhaps this is why he was such a good cop; he always feared the worse, and when it happened, he knew exactly how to deal with it. He kissed his wife Lucy, still sleeping, and whispered "good bye" to his 8-year-old son, TJ as he peeked into his son's bedroom. TJ told him to have a good day as Max went down the stairs and out to his car, grabbing his wallet and cell phone from the kitchen table as he left. Max drove to the station like it were any other day. He slowly made his way there, driving by the elementary school. He had taught some lessons about the use of drugs and alcohol there, so the kids knew him. Near the door of the school he stopped the car and rolled down the window. “Good morning, Jimmy,” he said to a small kid wearing glasses. The boy was puzzled at first, not knowing where the words had come from. He looked around for a moment before spotting the source. “Hi, officer Townsend,” he replied happily, before trotting into school with a smile on his face. Max arrived at the station at 9:13.

“You’re late, Townsend,” barked an older man, looking up the paperwork he was examining. “Sorry boss,” Max replied. Max referred to Sergeant Harvey Moore, a 63-year old police who’d been a cop his whole life. He was a little overweight, wore thick-rimmed rectangular glasses and suspenders and embodied everything one could think of about a stereotypical veteran cop. He was grouchy, thought he had seen everything there was to see as a policeman, and what little hair he had left was gray and slicked back. “What’re you looking at there, Sergeant,” Max said, inquiring about the files Moore was putting away into a file cabinet. “What? Oh, nothing. Sometimes I like to look back at some old cases and see some of the crazy stuff people have done. Wanna come see some of these? They’re pretty funny!” the Sergeant said. Moore was not exactly adored among field cops like Max, so Townsend passed on the invitation with a mere grunt in response. The Sergeant wasn’t a very fun-loving guy, so it puzzled Max that he’d enjoy looking back at those files.

The moment passed, and Max went over to his cubicle to do some paperwork. Everyone always thought being a policeman was everything you see on television; you go into a scene find some suspects, chases them down, and figure out the right one. That all had to happen, of course, within the 43 minutes the TV show had. Max hated this image of cops, that they always go in with their guns drawn. It painted him in a rather aggressive light, he'd say, and that anyone who knew him would know otherwise. He greeted Tara and Michael, the other members of his team, and sat down. He was reviewing the case for a murder. The victim worked at a bank and had told his girlfriend that something big was going to happen soon, but that he didn't know what. Max had talked to the girlfriend, but she didn't know anything more about whatever has going to happen. That’s where the trail went cold. There was no way of knowing what the victim meant. He could have been talking about predicting doomsday or simply his brother getting engaged. There had been a series of surprising deaths in people connected to that bank, but, in all of those cases, the trail went cold at about the same spot. From experience, Max knew that multiple deaths obviously connected were almost definitely murders, but he couldn't officially deem them as such without proper evidence, which they did not have. There was no way to prove that those deaths were murders, they could've been suicides or accidental; Max knew he was dealing with a professional who knew what they were doing. Michael walked over and read the case report over Max’s shoulder. “What do you think happened to this guy?” Michael questioned. “Maybe it was part of a scheme to get into this bank where he worked.” “Or maybe, it was a case of knowing too much. Somebody wanted him dead because he knew something he wasn’t supposed to. That’s probably what he hinted at to his girlfriend, only we have no idea what,” Max said. "Either way, there's a good chance this murder is a part of something bigger, and it's our job to figure out what that is before more people get hurt." That question hung over Max for a few days, not sure where to go, who to question. He went down to talk to people in and around the bank, but they said nothing of any interest. Max was so unsure about how to further his investigation into the murders that his demeanor changed. Not drastically, he was still very nice and helpful, but he was less enthusiastic. The investigation affected everything he did; he couldn't stop thinking about it. This was a pretty subtle change, and his wife was the first to notice it only after a few days.

The days turned into weeks and Max still had no idea what could've happened, no new leads popped up, no epiphanies occurred. Finally, Max came begrudgingly to the conclusion that the case had to be retired. That was the only thing Max really hated about being a cop. Having to close a case, especially a murder, without finding any answer. It killed him to know that the family of the murder victim was still out there, hoping justice would be served. Even cases that weren't murders, Max hated leaving things unanswered. They would always nag at his brain and he had a difficult time forcing himself to stop thinking about them, and he had even seen a psychiatrist to deal with it. Max had once notoriously dragged on a case for almost seven years, trying to figure out and eventually capture a murderer of a single mother and her two children. He had never solved the case, and the details always stayed with him, sometimes swirling through his head as he tried to sleep, almost taunting him. This was a similar case, as it stayed buried somewhere inside his head as he attempted to piece it together even after it had been retired.

Chapter 2: Catherine Clark opened the newspaper as she ate her breakfast. From September to June, her weekday schedule was almost always the same. She woke up, ate a bowl of corn flakes while looking at the paper, and drove to James Paul Elementary School by 7:30, sometimes earlier if she had a meeting with a parent or a student. This morning was no different, as she prepared herself for a regular day. Catherine, or Ms. Clark, as the students knew her, taught 3rd grade math classes. She had been teaching for almost six years, and she really enjoyed what she was doing. She loved interacting with the kids and she taught them very valuable math skills. She always thought that the further education progressed, the math material that the students were taught get less and less applicable to real life. Past a point in elementary school and through high school, students started to learn geometry, trigonometry, and calculus. Ms. Clark realized that a lot of students might have a deep interest in mathematics and may pursue the subject as a profession, but to the rest of the kids, calculus didn’t come too much in handy in day-to-day life. That is why she loved teaching the eight and nine year olds. She taught them many things, but major unit of the third grade was multiplication. Catherine was devoted to the subject because of how important she knew it would be in the lives of the kids she taught. She loved knowing that she made a difference. She thought she made a difference, too. In her late 20’s, she was very outgoing and charismatic, traits that very well suited her profession. She kept the students engaged because of how fun she made the material seem.

Catherine was reasonably short, though the shoes she wore tended to give her a few extra inches, making her seem about five foot seven. She was pretty and had curly, dirty blonde hair. She took pride in her teeth, which were very straight and white, and her dentist complimented her for keeping them that way. She lived happily with her boyfriend of two years, Chris, in a suburban part of San Diego, just a ten-minute drive from the elementary school. They lived in a very nice and sizable home, even with Catherine not earning a lot as a teacher and Chris not making a huge salary himself. Catherine came into a lot of money, as her parents were the founders of a very successful steel company based in Seattle. Catherine didn’t like the weather in Washington, but loved the west coast, so she moved south to San Diego. She drove to the school in her Prius that morning, had a cup of coffee, and settled down at her desk while waiting for her students to arrive. One by one, they strolled in with their parents, whom she greeted with a smile and told them what they would learn that day. Ms. Clark was introducing multiplication triangles: papers cut out in the shapes of triangles with two numbers on two corners and the product of the two on the third. When the students were all settled down, she explained the triangles. “This way, you can see two numbers and then make sure you know what number you get when you multiply them. You guys understand?” she described. “Now, get in to partners with one of your friends and go over these numbers.” The kids had a few questions, and Catherine had to show how there are six 7’s in 42, and the day went by very smoothly and quickly. Nonetheless, Catherine had not had a great night sleep the night before and was excited to get back home to relax. She drove home and noticed that Chris’ car was already in the driveway. It was only 3:15, and it was unusual for him to be home so early. She opened the door and Chris came to greet her in the hallway. She gave him a hug and sat down to take her shoes off. She looked up and saw a rather solemn look on Chris’ face. “What’s wrong?” she asked thoughtfully. “Can we talk for a minute?” Chris replied. Immediately, Catherine knew what was coming. Her eyes started to well up with tears at the idea of breaking up with her boyfriend. “Chris, I know what’s coming, but I love you!” she said, desperate, “Why?” “I can’t--,” he stopped, “It’s work…I don’t know, I just can’t do this any more. I already packed. Good bye.” Just like that, Chris was gone, and Catherine didn’t know what to do with herself. She called in to the school and took a personal day the following day. Not only was she was extremely sad, but she was puzzled as well. Was it something she said? Did Chris find something out? What did he find out? Things had been going so well, at least she thought they were. Had he met someone else? The questions came endlessly through her head. Chris had said something about work, but what could that have meant. Why would he break up with her and why would he not tell her anything? Catherine had never really been sure of what Chris did for a living, and he always kept to himself about his job. She had no idea what could’ve happened. It was all a little mysterious, everything happening so fast. Catherine called his cell multiple times that night and the next morning, but there was no answer. She thought maybe it was a spur of the moment decision and that he would come back, but that was not the case. She called Chris’ sister and his friends, but they hadn’t heard from him. They were all equally confused. She went to all of the places he loved to hang out: the local bar, a bowling alley, no one had seen him. As odd as it was, it seemed he had left town. She searched her mind for any hints that Chris might’ve dropped about where he was going or what he was going to do, but she couldn’t think of anything. Nothing added up. Catherine tried her best to get stop thinking about him, but it was hard. The worst part, she thought, was that none of it really made sense.

Chapter 3: <span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">"Mom, I'm hungry!" a fully grown George Moreno yelled out from his basement. Much to her chagrin, that basement was the mother's house, and was the current home of her son. That was where George was set up with all his computers. A "lair," as he would call it. He had a few dozen monitors, radios, computers, and other high-tech equipment. They were his passion, and where he spent almost all of his days. He sat in his favorite wheely-chair and monitored things and people. A lot of the time, he was monitoring the police. He could tap into their radio and pretty much know where they were and what they were doing. He knew it was illegal, but he really wasn't doing that much wrong. He wasn't using he knowledge maliciously, he just loved to know what was going on in the city. His mother, of course, would rather he live a more independent life with his own place and job. For now, George was still living (he would say "stationed") at his parents' house. <span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">His mom made her way down the stairs with a grilled cheese sandwich. His mom was a sweet old woman who was never very forceful in her efforts to get George out of the house, and this could've been partially why he had never moved on. <span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">"Here you go sweetie. Would you like something to drink?" she asked nicely. <span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">"Umm, yeah, I'll have some iced tea. Thanks, mom," he replied. <span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">"Before I get it, though. We should talk. I know this is something you hear me say this all the time, but you really should move out of this house and create a life for yours--," she managed, before getting cut off. <span style="font-family: arial,helvetica,sans-serif;">"Mom, I know what you're going to say, but it's really not going to make much of a difference. You've said it so many times that it has jumbled together and lost its meaning. I know you're trying to help and I appreciate that, really, but I'm perfectly content right now," he said, frankly. "George. You've spent so much time around computers. I know you've just been fooling around having fun with them, but you've developed some skill. You really know what you're doing and I feel like you could turn that into a profession. You probably won't really take this to heart, but the police and crime scene investigators are always looking for someone with your skillset. You can actually help solve crimes!" she said, trying to drum up some enthusiasm from him. "You've been watching too much TV. That only happens on CSI: Miami and 24, not real life." "Well, I think you're wrong but there's not much I can do about it. I just hope that some day you'll come to your senses and realize that there's much more to life than what you're living right now. You could make a difference," she said, almost giving up, "I'm gonna go back upstairs." George grunted in response and turned back towards his computers. Contrary to his mother's thoughts, those words did stick with George. Only for a few minutes, but he thought about it. If his mother had known this, she would have thought one thing and one thing only: progress. George was a rather heavyset man with pretty long hair and a scraggly beard. He rarely exercised or left the house, so he was very plump and pale. He resembled a cross between Comic Book Guy from "The Simpsons" and Frank, the trucker-hat-wearing character in "30 Rock." Despite his oddities, he was a truly nice person. That didn't mean anything to the neighborhood kids, as they knew him as the creepy guy from down the street the never left the house. It was practically an event worthy of spectators when one of the children spotted him out, going to the grocery store. George went back to his work, listening to the police, trying to find some interesting piece of information or anything that was supposed to be a secret. Almost always, this search was unsuccessful, with George not finding anything out of the ordinary. Perhaps it was better that way, because, if he ever did find something--be it something concerning public safety or someone doing anything illegal--George probably wouldn't know what to do with it. He was at it for a few hours before seeing something new, something that he had never before come across; something real. After hacking into a series of computers, one leading to the next leading to the next, he ended up viewing the screen and seeing through the webcam of a man. George looked for a few moments, puzzled as to his trail had led him to this computer, before an email message popped up on the other man's screen. "Meet at the agreed location. March 30, 1:30 in the morning. Don't bring more than 1 car, and don't be late. Bring $15 million in cash, and you will receive the package. Make sure no one finds out who isn't completely trustworthy. If this is possible to trace back to me, your life will be over before you can yell for help," the message read. George had no idea how to react. Like Catherine, questions swirled through his head. What was the package? It must be important, since it was worth so much. There was no location given, and this deal was obviously a secret; there's no way it wasn't illegal. The death threat made it that much more serious. George could still see through the webcam of the man, and realized that he should remember what he looked like. He quickly took a screen shot so as to have a photograph. At that point, there wasn't much he could do, but he knew he needed to tell someone. He remembered his friend Michael. He was a policeman in the San Diego police department, and although they hadn't spoken much recently, George knew he was the right person to call. So much was going through George's head, and he was terrified that he had found something big and that he would inevitably be caught in the middle of it and put in danger. Anything worth that much money meant there were people willing to go to extreme lengths to make sure nothing messed it up.

Chapter 4: <span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Michael Walsh woke up and got dressed. He lived in a small, worn down apartment in San Diego, and didn’t have much money to his name. He loved being a policeman because he loved keeping people safe and making sure everyone abided by the law and behaved as good citizens should. <span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">He drove his squad car to the station early in the morning, beating the rush hour traffic. It was usually his responsibility to get the donuts and coffee for his team, so he stopped at a local Dunkin’ Donuts on the way. Like, Max, he thought a lot about the case of the dead man at the bank. He ate a donut and drove slowly, pondering the possibilities. <span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">When he arrived at the station, Max wasn’t there yet. Michael was the kind of person who was always early; he never missed anything and was never late to anything. He reviewed the case and waited for Townsend, his boss, to show up. He greeted Tara, had some coffee and another donut, and waited some more. Finally, Max arrived. <span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">They agreed, after more deliberation, to go back down to the scene of the crime to make sure they had found every little piece of information that could help them. The two of them drove down to the bank where the murder had occurred. They weren’t finding much, but both of them could feel that there __was__ in fact something to find, something they were missing. <span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Michael’s cell phone rang; it was his friend George Moreno. They hadn’t spoken in a while, and Michael was surprised to see his name on the caller-ID. The two of them were friends in high school and kept in touch in college and, although they had taken two very different paths, being the same city, they met up for some beers every now and again. <span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">“Hello?” Michael answered. <span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">“Hey, it’s me, George.” <span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">“How’s it going?” Michael asked. <span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">“It’s okay…but listen, you know how I like to mess around with computers and stuff, right?” <span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">“Yeah, I do, but I’m not sure I like where this is going,” Michael replied rather apprehensively. <span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">“Neither do I, really,” George said, “but I came across this message on some guy’s computer that talked about a deal going down and it involved $15 million in cash. I think you should check it out.” <span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Michael’s face turned serious; whenever that much cash was involved, it wasn’t an ordinary bank deposit. <span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">“How did you find this again?” Michael asked rather impatiently. <span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">“Never mind that, but I think we should talk about this in person, this could be dangerous. Can I meet you at the station?” <span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">“Yeah, be at the station in half an hour, I’ll see you there,” Michael hung up. <span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Max heard only Michael’s end of the conversation and was confused. “Who was that,” he asked. <span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">“My friend George. He said he found something about a $15 million deal. He didn’t tell me any more than that.” <span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">“That can’t be good, why’d he call on your cell?” <span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">“I’m not sure, probably ‘cause he wanted to talk to someone he knew? I don’t know. I’m going to talk to him about it back at the station. You should stay here and gather any evidence you can find,” Michael advised. <span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">“Okay, call me if you find out anything about this ‘deal.’ I’ll be back at the station soon.”

<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Michael drove back to the station wondering what George could’ve been talking about. What type of deal could the people be talking about? Nothing went down worth that much money and was perfectly legal. Whatever it was, it had to be stopped. Michael arrived back at the station to talk to George, who was already there, waiting by the door and holding a piece of paper. <span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">“Hey, Michael. I have the screenshot of that message and a picture of the guy that received it right here,” George said, turning the paper over in his hands. <span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">“How the hell did you find this guy?” Michael asked, reading the message printed onto the page. <span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">“I hacked into his screen and intercepted this message right when he got it,” he replied casually. <span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">“You know that’s illegal, right?” Michael asked, rather unhappily. <span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">“I know, but you know I’m not gonna do any harm with my computer hacking. And that’s not really what we should be thinking about, we need to stop whatever is about to happen” <span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">“We? Who said you were involved here. I could arrest you right now,” Michael replied, “But you’re right. We need to track this guy down and, based on your skill with computers, you might be able to help. We should run this picture through some facial recognition software. He might not be on record, but it’s worth a shot. That’ll take a day or so to process, so in the mean time you need to find out anything you can about this guy and this deal, okay George?” Michael said, becoming more and more motivated with every second. George nodded and sat down at Michael’s computer, realizing that his mom would be very happy to know that he was, in fact, trying to turn his skill into a profession, just like she said he should. He smiled at that thought as he worked. A plan of how to deal with the situation was coming together, and Michael felt confident that it would eventually succeed. He dialed Max’s cell number to let him in on what was going on. There was no answer; Michael left a message, sat down, and started to think.

<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Chapter 5:

<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> Meanwhile, back at the bank, Max went about his business trying to find out anything new about the murder of the banker. He asked around talked to the manager and eventually convinced the manager to let him look at the victim’s computer and his bank records, to make sure no stone went unturned. Normally it was completely against policy for anyone not employed by the bank to access the computers and files, but since it was a criminal investigation, the manager made an exception. <span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">“I don’t really know what you’re looking for, and I don’t think you’ll find anything really interesting. The man was just doing his job; this is a really unfortunate turn of events we’ve seen here. If you really think it’ll help, go for it,” said the manager. <span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">“Thank you very much, I’m just doing anything I can to try and find the culprit and bring them to justice.” <span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">The manager left, and Max got down to business looking at the account records on the man’s computer. There was only one thing that seemed odd in the entire account; there was a $15 million transfer that had been cancelled just two days before the banker died. Upon some further digging, Max found that it had been cancelled after being flagged and reported, possibly because it was such a large sum of money. Then Max remembered that Michael said that his friend had said something about a $15 million deal happening in cash. The two could very easily be linked. Max, realizing this could be a breakthrough in the case, stood up, pensive, and took his phone out of his pocket to call Michael. Just as he was about to call, he turned and saw a man wearing a mask over his face, raising a club, and everything went black.

<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">His eyes flickered open as he slowly woke up. There was light slipping through under a doorway in the corner of the room, but other than that not much was visible. There were no windows and he had no idea how long he had been there, unconscious. He attempted to stand only to realize that his arms were strapped to the chair he was sitting in. Max had no idea where he was or what had happened. His head throbbed and there was a sharp pain in his right hip. <span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">For a few moments he waited, trying to get a grip on his situation. Then the door opened, light spilled in, and everything went black. Max woke up to water being splashed on his face. <span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">“Where am I? What’s going on?” Max yelled at the man standing over him. The room was dark, and he could completely make out the man’s face. <span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">“You have to realize you’re not in a position to be asking questions, here, Max,” the man replied. <span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">“How do you know my name? Who are you?” Max continued to shout. <span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">“You’re not a great listener, are you?” the man remarked, “You seem to have found something you weren’t supposed to, and for that you will pay, as others have before you.” <span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">“You killed the man at the bank?!” Max said, still yelling. He thought for a moment; perhaps the banker had found the same cancelled transfer, done some digging and found out about whatever “deal” Michael’s friend was talking about. It all made sense. Max realized he was probably talking to the mastermind of the whole thing at that very moment. <span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">“I never said that,” the man replied, smirking, “seeing as you’re about to die, I’m going to let you in on a little secret. In a matter of weeks, I will be the richest man in the world. I guess you know a little bit about the purchase I will make next week, but you don’t know what it is. I am about to buy the strongest strain of weaponry that exists in the world today. They are bombs that would fit in a purse, but have the power to destroy the state of New Jersey. I will obtain them, then the federal government will pay me for them, so they don’t end up in the wrong hands. It’s fool proof!” <span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">“You sick bastard. What about your family and friends, you're just going to leave them all and let this happen! You could start a nuclear war!” Max shouted once more. <span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">“I've left my whole family, and I don't have friends. You really think that will get me to stop this 'what about your family?' You're not a very good police man, are you? Also, I'd rather not start a nuclear war, but if it comes to that…” his voice trailed off, “Anyway, do you have any last requests that I can reasonably grant you? I’ll be right back, think quickly.” The man left the room and the light from the doorway allowed Max to glimpse him. He was about five foot ten inches and had a muscular build with short, cropped hair. Max saw only one side of his face, but he could make out the dirty blonde hair, scraggly beard, and sharp nose. <span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Max knew he didn’t have much time. Although all of his limbs were tied, the man did not secure his head. Max bent down and, using his teeth, was able to untie the binding on his left wrist. Quickly, he used his free hand to release his right arm. Max bent over and started to loosen his left foot, only to hear the footsteps of the man trotting down the hallway. The door opened and he walked back in, holding a huge syringe. <span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">“You come up with any last wishes?” Max grunted in return, acting as if he was still tied down. <span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">“In my hand is enough tranquilizer to kill 4 horses and a bear. You won’t even feel your death, isn’t that courteous of me? I’m not as evil as you think, you know,” the man said, confident. He bent over to inject Max with the poison but was stopped. Max knocked the needle out of the man’s hand and onto the floor. Before he could react, Max had him in a sleeper hold. The man fought for a few seconds and then became still. He would only be out for a few minutes, so Max knew he had to get out of there fast. He untied both of his feet and took the gun around the man’s belt. Max heard the footsteps of two men running towards the door. Having heard the commotion, the guards came to see what had happened. Max, through excruciating pain in his hip, ducked behind the chair and pointed the gun towards the door. He waited a few seconds, breathing heavily. Two men burst into the room, guns drawn, but they couldn’t see Max. Their eyes didn’t have time to adjust to the darkness of the room before Max fired two bullets, taking them out. <span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Max took a quick look down the hall to see if anyone else was there; it was empty. In the dark, he fumbled around for any information he could find, found a map and some blueprints, and took off. He limped down the hallway and out of the first door he saw, onto the street. He lifted his shirt and looked at his hip; there was a huge bruise that covered most of his side, as if he had been hit there with a club. He grimaced, more at the bruise than at the pain itself, and tried to figure out where he was and how much time had passed. The last he remembered he was at the bank and it was the afternoon of March 22. He soon found out that it was the morning of the next day. He frantically searched for his phone to try and call his family, only to discover that it had been broken and was in pieces in his pocket. Max walked to the nearest intersection and hailed a taxi. He was exhausted and in an extreme amount of pain, but he needed to tell Michael what he knew.

<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> First, though, he had to go make sure his family was okay. He directed the cab to his house and paid the driver (he still had his wallet). He walked inside, a mess and his wife stood there, angry and terrified.

<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">“What happened to you?” Lucy exclaimed.

<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">“It was work, I found something out and a guy knocked me out and was about to kill me,” Max replied, breathing heavily and wincing as he moved.

<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">“Oh my God, are you okay,” she asked, starting to panic.

<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">“Yeah, I’ll be fine, but I’m worried about you and TJ. He knew my name and probably where we live. I found out about this plan he has to buy a new kind of weapon. He’s going to come after me, so we should not stay in this house. Find a hotel nearby and stay there under a fake name until this all works out. It’ll be okay, I promise,” Max tried to reassure her.

<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">“Oh, no. This must be really serious. What’s going on?”

<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">“I don’t want to tell you; it could put you in even more danger.” Max replied, “I’m afraid you just have to trust me.”

<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">“Of course I trust you, Max. I’m just scared that’s all. Wouldn’t you be scared, too?”

<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">“Of course I would. You should go pick up TJ from school. Tell them it’s an emergency. I need to go over to the station and tell Michael about this, they need to know what’s going on,” Max explained.

<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Lucy agreed and Max lied down on his bed and called Michael. He told him about everything that had happened. Michael advised that Max stay home for at least a day or two, to recover. Max would not agree. He knew that the man must’ve moved his location and set up shop somewhere else, and he had a week to figure out where he was and stop him. Max agreed to stay home for a couple hours, ice his hip, and get some sleep.

<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> Not only did they need to stop the sale from happening, but they also needed to find out who had these weapons to sell. There were two groups of people Max needed to track down. After his break at home, Max went to the police station that afternoon. He saw that George was still there and said hello.

<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">“I heard about what happened, that’s crazy. Are you okay?” George asked Max.

<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">“Eh, I’ve been better, that’s for sure,” Max replied. He beckoned for Michael to come over and talk to him, out of George’s ear shot.

<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">“What’s he still doing here,” Max asked.

<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">“He’s really good with computers and this is something he’s always wanted to do. Plus, I figure if he could get in to that guy’s computer once, he could do it again.”

<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">“Fine, I’m just a little irked at his lack of experience.” Max limped over and talked to George.

<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">“Hey, can I see the picture you took of that guy,” he questioned. George handed him the printed sheet of paper without a word. Max looked at it for a second, mentally comparing it to the man that had tried to kill him.

<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">“Yup, that’s the guy. At least we know we have something going for us,” Max said, rather sarcastically. “On my way out of the building I was trapped in, I was able to grab these,” Max said, pulling the blueprints and maps from his pocket, where he folded them into a tiny, thick piece of paper. He laid out the blueprints and they all immediately noticed that they were designs for the weapon the man planned to use. None of them really knew about mechanics and technology, but as they gathered around, they could tell just by the blue print that it was a weapon to be reckoned with. It was the size of a baseball, only with immense power.

<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Max then pulled out the map that he had taken. It was a map of San Diego, more specifically, the neighborhood where Max was when he came out of the building. There were numerous spots marked on the map; a few were miscellaneous, without any indication as to what they were, but one was marked “Meeting Location” with lines pointing to it from all directions.

<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> Max, Michael and George looked at each other. “Nice work, Max,” Michael said, “Looks like we’ve got ourselves meeting point. Let’s out a team down there to monitor anything that happens down there.” <span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">“Sounds good,” Max said. <span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">"What do we do now, then,” George inquired. <span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">“We wait,” they both replied.

<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Later, they consulted Sergeant Moore about dispatching a team to the area. He was very reluctant, initially, and Max couldn’t understand why. <span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">“We don’t need to use that much manpower for this. We can just go in there that night and stop this from going down,” he said. <span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">“With something of this magnitude and this much danger, we need as much help as we can get, sir,” Max argued. For whatever reason, that Sergeant was still resistant to the idea. <span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">“Fine, but if you’re so worried about these weapons, you shouldn’t worry about the guy selling ‘em, just make sure they don’t get into the buyer’s hands.” <span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">“Got it, thank you Sergeant,” Max answered as he left his boss’ office.

<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Moore looked around and made sure he was in private and closed the blinds on the glass walls of the office. He reached to pick up the phone on his desk and started dialing. Halfway through, he realized his work line wasn't secure, hung up, and picked up his cell phone. <span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">“This is Moore,” he waited, “There needs to be a change of plans. A couple of officers found out about the deal and where it’s going to happen. There will be a team there at all times for the next week,” the Sergeant listened as the other man replied. All the while, the Sergeant kept glancing around, making sure no one could hear him. <span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">“I tried to convince them not to put a team on location but they didn’t listen. I couldn’t stop them without blowing my cover,” he said, his voice rising then lowering to a whisper as he realized people could be listening. <span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">“You need to find a new location, that’s all I’m saying…you're welcome,” he said, and hung up. Nervously, he wiped his brow and exhaled deeply. He reminded himself of the rewards he would reap from this deal. As he had every day since the men came to him with a proposal, he tried his best not to think about the results of what he was helping these people do.

<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">The next morning, Max’s cell phone rang. He reached across his body to pick it up. He decided to go in to work late that morning, given the events of the previous day and the fact that they knew the sale of the weapons was not going to take place until six days later. Still groggy and in a lot of pain, he rolled over and answered it. It was his son's teacher, Ms. Clark. "Hello?" Max answered. "Hi, is this TJ's dad?" Catherine asked. "Yeah, I'm Max." "This is Ms. Clark, TJ's teacher at school," she said. "Oh, hi. How can I help you?" "Well, it's time for a parent teacher conference we should have ours as soon as possible. Could you meet tomorrow?" "Umm, I'm a little busy, I think it should wait about a week or so. Would that work?" "Not really, it's kind of an emergency; we need to talk as soon as possible," she said, hoping she could convince him. "Fine, can I come to the school at four tomorrow?" he said, rather begrudgingly. If this had been a normal situation that Max was in, he would have been worried about why the teacher needed to talk to him. Had TJ gotten in a fight or something? At this stage, however, this did not cross his mind as he had, frankly, more important things to think about. The next day, he went into his meeting with Ms. Clark a little irritated that the meeting was so urgent, so Max wasn't in a great mood. He walked into the parent-teacher conference unhappy, and visibly so. The meeting took place in Ms. Clark's 3rd grade classroom. There was all sorts of artwork lining the walls. Bulletin boards housed every project the kids had done that year. There was a large chart with stickers on it that all of the kids earned for doing something well. Max didn't notice, but if he had taken the time to look, he would've seen that TJ had one of the higher sticker totals in the class. It didn't seem like there was anything TJ wasn't doing right. The classroom had the tiny chairs that could hold approximately one third of the average person and tables that were eighteen inches high at best. Large glass windows lined one side of the room as sunlight streamed in. It was a gorgeous day. Catherine sat behind her desk. She wore a dark colored dress and glasses. There was a normal person's chair set up across from her desk, and she motioned for Max to have a seat. She noticed Max's displeasure immediately. She, too, did not seem thrilled. "Hi, Mr. Townsend," the teacher said. "It's Max. And hi." "Okay then, Max." The two of them sat there for a couple seconds, neither really sure what to say or where the meeting was going. "So, um, you said this meeting was an emergency. Is there something wrong with TJ? Is he getting into fights, not learning at the same rate as the other kids? What is it?" Max asked, a little agitated that he was the one who had to initiate the conversation. Ms. Clark hesitated a little before responding. "Okay, I didn't really call this meeting because of your son. He's doing fine; really well, actually." She pointed over his shoulder at the class' sticker chart. Max turned his head and made out his son's name, then saw the stickers that were there. "Well, if it's not an emergency and it doesn't have to do with my son, I'm out of here," Max said, pushing the chair out from under him. He had temporarily forgotten about his injuries and winced as the pain seared through him as he stood. Ms. Clark's face turned to one of concern. "Are you okay, what happened?" she asked. "I'm fine, just some bumps and bruises from out in the field," Max replied, easing himself back into the chair to avoid even more pain. He had an ice pack secured to his hip with an Ace bandage. He felt it start to slip from beneath his t shirt. He didn't want Ms. Clark to know the full extent of his injuries or anything about what had happened to him. He didn't need another civilian involved in this already very dangerous case. As he sat, he tried to readjust the ice pack as covertly as possible, hoping she wouldn't notice. "Ouch, you sure you are okay? There's something I need to talk to you about, something personal. You're a police man, right?" she inquired, already knowing the answer. "Yeah I'm fine. What could you possibly need to talk to me about? If you need to talk to the police, call them! Don't come to me," he said, losing patience. "I don't know, you just seemed to be the right person to talk to. Anyway, it's about my boyfriend. Well, ex boyfriend. He broke up with me and left town," she said, getting sad at the thought of him. "Listen to me," Max replied, seriously angry at this point, "I'm injured and in the middle of working an important case. You call me in here saying that this is an emergency and I thought it had something to do with my son. I'm the father of one of your students and a cop, not a social worker. That's really what you need," he said, as he stood once again. He ignored the pain pulsing through him and turned for the door. "Wait," Catherine said, her voice wavering. She was on the verge of breaking down in tears. "He just left. Everything was going fine and then, poof, he was gone. He said it had to do with work, but who knows? I called his family and friends, I went to all of the places he usually hangs out; nothing. I called his cell and left tons of voice mails, and never responded. He just disappeared and I'm worried something really bad happened to him," she pleaded. "You shouldn't have come to me for this. You could've called to have someone search for him. Even that might not be worth it. What if he moved away? He said it was because of work, what did he do?" Max asked, becoming a little more compassionate. "I don't even really know. It had something to do with computers and technology, but I never really understood it. I'm kind of old-fashioned, I'm not good with all that stuff." "Okay, I don't know why I'm letting you do this, but could you describe him for me? When I get the chance I'll get a search team out for him, if it's really that important," he said, finally agreeing. "Thank you so much! He has short, blond-ish hair and a beard. He's pretty normal looking, I don't know how else to describe him." Catherine said. "Okay, well do you think you could come down to the station and describe him to a sketch artist. That might help," Max said. Ms. Clark agreed and the two of them drove down to the station. Max still wasn't very happy, and there wasn't any conversation in the car on the way there. They drove across the city, both of them staring straight ahead at the road in silence. After what seemed like an eternity, they reached the station and got out of the car. "Listen, to get to where this sketch artist is, we have to go through the room where all of our offices are. There's all sorts of confidential stuff about cases in there; stuff that you shouldn't see or know about. I want you to keep your head down and try to see as little as possible, you could be arrested if you don't comply. Got it?" Max instructed. "Yeah sure," she said. Her mind was not there, rather thinking about Chris and where he might be, and what had happened to him. Catherine and Max walked up the stairs and into the offices. "Head down," Max reminded. Ms. Clark did so. She followed him through the offices. Even as she was looking down, explicitly trying not to see anything she wasn't supposed to, something caught her eye. On a bulletin board in Max's office there was the screen shot of what George had seen on his computer. She saw the man in the picture and yelped. "That's him! That's my boyfriend!" she shouted, ecstatic. The yell had garnered the attention of everyone in the office as they all turned to view the source of the excitement. Max tried to figure out who she was talking about and why they were in the police station. Catherine's ecstasy quickly turned to confusion. "Wait," she hesitated, "why is there a picture of my boyfriend on your wall?" Max turned around and realized what she meant. He saw Michael, extremely puzzled, who had no idea what was going on. "__That__ is your boyfriend?" Max asked, pointing at the photograph with lines of string connecting to it on all directions. "The man on my bulletin board?" "Yes, that's Chris. I had been dating him for two years. But wait, why is his picture there?" Catherine asked, having no idea of what was going on. "You're going to have to come with us. We have some questions to ask you," Michael said, joining the conversation. "We will explain what's going on, don't worry. We just need to talk to you in private," he mustered, before she could protest or question any further. Max and Michael led Catherine deeper into the station, to a questioning room rather than a sketch artist. The three of them got to the room and Catherine sat down on a rickety metal chair. It was a mostly dark room with a single light bulb and a metal table and two chairs. The person being questioned faced what appeared to be a large mirror but was actually a one way window through which someone could observe the questioning. The two men faced Catherine and leaned on the table, facing her. "Your boyfriend is involved in an attack that could threaten the security of this nation," Max started. "What? What do you mean? There's no way that's possible," she replied, surprised. "You saw that I am battered and hurt. He kidnapped me and planned to kill me. I don't really know what happened, but he told me of his plan," Max said frankly. Catherine's face turned to one of shock. "How is that even possible? There's no way he is actually involved, you must have the wrong person," she said, going into denial. "The logical next step is to question you. Do you know anything about this? What were his plans?" Michael insisted. "I have no idea. He never said anything about this, I barely know what you're talking about. If I were involved, why would I have got to a cop asking about it? And why would I agree to come here?" Catherine said. It made sense, the police men just had to be completely certain that she was not in cahoots. "Do you know anything about what his plans were?" Max said. "Like I said, I know nothing. If you say it involves national security, I don't want anything to happen any more than you would. If you need someone that knows him, knows how he thinks, you're looking at them," she said. "Give us a moment, please," Michael said. He and Max stepped outside into the hallway, deliberating their next move. It was against normal policy to enlist the help of a citizen, but they had already done so once. "Do you think we could use her help?" Michael asked. "I'm not sure how much she could do, she's just a teacher," Max said, unsure. "I mean, it might not be much, but if she could put us inside the head of the criminal it could help. Any time you can get someone who knows exactly who you're up against, it can help. Even if she doesn't do much, there's a chance she'll be a valuable asset," Michael said. "So how much should we tell her about this whole thing?" "As much as we know," Michael replied, and started back for the questioning room. They went into the room and told Catherine that she could help. She was happy, although even she did not really know how or what she would contribute. They briefed her on the situation. She was shocked and terrified about what could occur. "Who else knows about this? Have you told anyone in the government above the police? The FBI? The White House, anyone?" she asked smartly. "We haven't. We didn't have this intel until just the other day and didn't really know much until right now. I'm going to go contact some higher-ups right now," Max said. Max left the room and Michael continued to brief Catherine on the situation. Michael walked over to his office and shut his door. He made sure he was in private and picked up his work phone. He dialed for the station's receptionist. "Hello?" "This is officer Townsend, could you patch me through to the White House?" Max asked. "Sure." It took about twenty minutes for Max to get to talk to anyone significant in the White House, let alone the man in the Oval Office. Every call would go pretty much the same way. "Hello, I am officer Max Townsend from the San Diego PD. Can you connect me to the President?" Max would say so a miscellaneous White House official. "I'm afraid you can't just call and talk to the President of the United States, sir," they would reply. "Look, it's a matter of National Security. We believe we have intel of a sale of highly powerful weaponry, and the President needs to know about it." "What kind of weaponry are we talking about?" they would inquire. "I need to speak with the President, connect me to your boss." This process went on through many people until finally Max reached the top of the proverbial ladder of politicians. After yet another one of those conversations, this one lengthened because, the man on the other line said, the President was in a meeting, Max heard some important words; "Please hold for the President," they said. Max, sitting at his desk in the San Diego police station, suddenly realized that he was about to speak to the most important man in the world. It was at the point that he became conscious of how real this threat was. It registered in his brain that, at that moment, he was the one in charge of stopping what could end up being the largest attack in American history. He was shocked and terrified and almost forgot what was happening when he heard a voice on the other end of the phone. "Hello?" "Mr. President? Hello, how are you?" Max responded, courteous. "I'm fine, but I don't have time for small talk. There was some talk of a threat to National Security?" the President asked. "Yes. Well, I'm officer Max Townsend of the San Diego PD and we have reason to believe there will be a sale of new, extremely powerful nuclear weapons and that the sale will occur later this week," Max said. "Where did you get this intel?" "Someone picked up a message concerning a deal for $15 million and then I was kidnapped and the culprit told me about the weaponry. I managed to escape with some plans about the deal and where it would take place," Max explained, "the man who kidnapped me said that he would force the government to pay him to make sure the bombs didn't end up in the wrong hands." "We can't let it get to the point. We can't negotiate with terrorists," the President said. "I knew you'd say that. I needed to let the President know about a threat this imminent. So far, we've dispatched a team to be at the location we think the sale will occur. It will happen in five days, and until then, we wait," Max said, "it is a highly dangerous mission, as this man has already killed people to make sure his sale goes smoothly. We are aware of that and have some of our best men stationed at the site." "Good work, officer. I will keep in touch with you over the course of the coming days to make sure everything goes as planned," the President said. "Thank you, Mr. President. Good bye," Max hung up.

Chapter Six: The next few days were mostly uneventful. Max went with Michael back the the place where he had been held before escaping. They weren't sure if anyone would be there, so they entered with extreme caution. They kicked down the door the Max exited and went in with their guns drawn. Not surprisingly, no one was there. There was nothing in the hallway or anything in the room where Max had been held. There were a few empty grey cabinets and a counter, but there was nothing there. Max examined the chair that he sat in. It was a normal wooden chair that had been nailed into the ground. The leather straps that held his hands and feet were bolted onto the the bottom of the arm rests and the legs of the chair. The man, or Chris, since they now knew his name, had done a good job cleaning up the place, leaving nothing behind. They even brought in a forensics team and they could barely find any finger prints. Not that they would have shown much, since they already knew who they were looking for and where they were looking for them. The sale, according to the plans, was scheduled to take place on the beach right next to a dock. Running parallel to the beach was a street and on the other side of that street there were some hotel and office buildings. The team watching the location was located on top of one of those buildings, looking out onto the beach from above. There were constantly about five or six men up there, at least two of them snipers. The day the sale was scheduled to happen, there was to be another team on the ground, hidden around the location and more men on the roof. Just for extra security and a last line of defense, there were scattered police officers lining the beach for two miles in both directions. When the sale went down, there was no way those people were getting away. The officers assigned the duty of watching from the roof were always in direct contact with Max, who was in charge of the whole operation, even with highly trained SWAT team members present. Every once in a while, Max would talk to one of the men over radio, making sure everything was normal. Nothing ever seemed to happen, no one did anything suspicious. A lot of those few days were spent trying to find out what motive, if any, Chris had for wanting to bring such terror to this country. From what he said to Max and from what Catherine said, he was not a very angry guy and didn't seem like a likely candidate to be a terrorist. Catherine said he always wanted to be rich, that he always talked about having enough money to not have to do anything. That being said, people don't normally go out and blackmail their country just to make a few bucks. Catherine thought he came from a modest background and didn't make that much money, but that clearly wasn't the case if he had enough money to pull off something like that. They were essentially stumped and came to the conclusion that maybe Chris didn't just want the weapons so that he could get rich, that maybe he really did have malicious intents. After much deliberation and what seemed like years passing, the day for the deal to take place finally came. Everyone in the office was nervous, wanting to make sure every little thing went correctly. They spent the bulk of the day preparing: making sure all the men were in the right place, making sure they knew what to do when they saw the targets (do not shoot unless in real danger, apprehend the suspects), and making sure everyone knew where to be. It was not supposed to take place until 1:30 in the morning, so Max, Michael and everyone else went home at five PM to get some sleep and make sure they were well-rested when the time came. Max went back to the hotel where he and his family were still staying to avoid any possible danger. The three of them sat there in the hotel room, watching TV for a lot of the evening. TJ had no idea what was going on; he didn't know why they were at the hotel or what his father was dealing with. Lucy, Max's wife, knew only the basics and that Max had to leave at around midnight. He was very nervous and had been that whole week. He didn't talk much and generally just seemed closed off. That night it only got worse. Max knew he didn't need an alarm to wake him up. For such an important event, his body would do the trick. As a matter of fact, he considered himself lucky to get any sleep at all. He woke up at eleven thirty and got dressed. He made sure he was 100% equipped and ready to go. Lucy woke up and wished him well, almost crying, telling him to be safe. Max went over to his son's bed and kissed him goodbye, making sure not to wake him. "Okay, I'll see you guys in a few hours, hopefully. And with any luck we'll be able to go back home. Love you," Max said as he exited the hotel room and closed the door behind him. He walked down the hallway and took the elevator down to the lobby. He walked outside and toward his car. A wave of nervousness and nausea hit him and he vomited in the nearest trash can. He found a bottle of water in his car and washed out the taste before driving to the station.

Chapter Seven: Max arrived at the station on time, just a couple of minutes before midnight. Max and Michael were to drive over with some other policemen to where the deal was supposed to take place. They would head the operation from the ground and help the agents apprehend anyone and everyone there. Catherine and George stayed back at the station and in radio contact with Max. George was on his computers, tracking everything that happened. With some radar technology, he could see little thermal dots of where people were. Catherine was there with George and would talk to Max over the radio as everything happened. One of the SWAT team members wore a small camera on their helmet so that both the people in the station and people in the White House could have a first hand view of what was going on. Max and Michael drove to the beach and parked their car out of sight of where the deal would take place. Lots of SWAT team members were already there and the snipers on the roof were all ready. The teams of men had bugged the location and everyone had a small ear piece that allowed them to hear what was happening on the beach even as they were far away. Everything was set up and all systems were go, so they waited. It was a clear night, a crescent moon showing itself over the water. It was cool but not freezing and the ocean created a breeze to keep it cool. It was only twelve forty when Max and Michael got there, so they had a while to wait. They sat there, hiding and making very little noise, with the rest of the men. The clock struck one thirty and nothing happened. Just one person's watch beeped with an alarm. They waited seven more minutes before they saw the silhouette of a man walking across the beach. As soon as that man appeared, a car door opened and a second man got out, a few hundred feet away. The man that got out of the car was holding a large duffle bag, and the first man held a briefcase. "This is it, fellas," Max whispered over the radio to his comrades. The two men on the beach approached each other and shook hands. "You're late," said the man from the car. "Yeah, well, I'm here," the other man replied, agitatedly, "Here's your money, let me have the weapons." The other man took the briefcase and opened it, examining the contents. "All $15 million," the first man reassured. That was all that Max needed to hear. He whispered his orders loudly into the radio: "Move in and apprehend." At that, the men all converged on the site. The word "freeze!" was yelled from probably 20 different angles. The men stood there, seemingly in shock, the briefcase still open in the second man's hand. Suddenly, the two suspects dropped down to the sand of the beach and put there heads toward the ground. Max didn't have any idea what happened next. There was a loud flash and a ringing noise in his ears. A huge burst of light filled the air. All of the men were looking in that direction so all were temporarily blinded. The two men supposedly involved in the deal got up and started to run. Prepared for the blast, they knew to cover their eyes and ears. They had set off a flash grenade to provide a decoy and escape mechanism. As they ran across the beach toward the car, a few of the police men on the roof regained their sight and saw them running. The trained sniper gunned them down, preventing any getaway. Back at the station, George and Catherine saw the huge blast of thermal energy on the radar. They frantically tried to radio in to Max, but the connection was lost. They could see what happened on the camera, but it too was blinded. By the time Max had recovered, it was too late to do anything. The men had set off a flash grenade from the briefcase; there was never any money or weapons at that site. Unfortunately, the sniper had killed both of them, making it so that the police had no way of questioning them. Max went over and looked at the bodies and noticed that neither of them were Chris. They had been set up. Chris and whoever he was trying to deal with knew they were coming. They set up a hoax. Chances were that they had gone through with the deal somewhere else. They had failed. At that point, the questions burst into Max's head. How did they know they were coming? Did they have someone on the inside? Was that the plan all along? Either way, it had worked, and Max had no idea where the real people with the real weapons and money could be. He knew he had to make the call, but he could barely bring himself to do so. He had let down his country and failed in an attempt to start a possible nuclear war. Regardless, Max knew he had to talk to the President.

As the phone rang, Max was again faced with a situation in which he realized the magnitude of the information he was about to give to the President of the United States. He breathed deeply and planned out his words. "Hello?" the president started. "Max, do you have good news? I saw a lot of light, then not much after that, tell me what you've got." "I'm afraid the news isn't very good, Mister President," Max started. "I'm extremely apologetic to have failed you. I don't think I'll ever be able to forgive myself." "Max, you need to explain to me what happened. Don't sugar coat it, I need to know," the President said. "We had the whole thing set up, there was no way anyone was going to get out. We waited until two people, who matched the description of the suspects and were carrying a briefcase and a duffel bag showed up. We tried to take them out but the briefcase was actually holding a flash grenade." The President was confused; he didn't know how any of this could possibly have happened. "But what happened to the deal? I thought it was all going to happen this morning, right now. Where are the real people?" the President asked. "We don't know. It looks like someone tipped them off about the location of the sale. We haven't had time to look over any evidence, but we might have a mole. These guys definitely knew we were coming. As much as it pains me to say this, there's a good chance the sale already happened, elsewhere. These weapons might already be in the wrong hands, and we have no idea where to turn to look for them," Max said sadly. "Okay. You need to inform me of any piece of information you find. We are going to track these guys down before they can cause any damage to the American public. Get to work and keep me posted." The President hung up. In the Oval Office, he sighed deeply and rubbed his hands over his eyes and through his hair. Frustrated, he knew that, as of that moment, there was probably a terrorist with weapons of mass destruction somewhere inside the United States, and he had no idea where they were. A few members of his staff were there, sitting around him, equally perplexed. They all looked around at one another, scanning the faces of the other people, all hoping someone else had some sort of solution. Back at the scene, Max immediately got back to work. He tried his best to maintain his composure, even though he was practically shaking with fright at what had just happened. He had his team set up huge perimeter around the area and had all San Diego cops on duty look for absolutely anything that could be deemed suspicious. Max drove back to the station and started his search to find out who the mole was. There was only a select group of people that knew about the sale and where it was going to happen, so he knew it was someone inside the office. The obvious first guess was Catherine, the teacher. She was Chris' ex-girlfriend, and had joined the operation to help the police. Max took her into the interrogation room and started asking questions. Her defense was very logical: if she was going to help this happen, why would she come to the police in the first place? Nonetheless, Max suspected her primarily. After 15 minutes of questions asked of her, there was really nothing that indicated her involvement, other than her relationship with the criminal. Max decided to go back to his hotel and clear his head. It was about four in the morning at that point, so he got a few hours of sleep before waking up and getting back to work. He again went down to the station and his phone rang. He didn't recognize the number of the caller and picked up. "Hello?" Max answered. "Please hold for the President of the United States," the voice on the other line said. Before Max had a chance to react or ask this other man anything, he was patched through to the most powerful man in the world. "Max. There's something you need to see," the President said, not even allowing Max to say a word before continuing. "A masked man just issued a warning to me and this country. He said that he has in his possession weapons of mass destruction and that if we don't pay him billions of dollars he will bomb New York City and then turn the rest of the weapons over to terrorist groups in the Middle East. This must be related, and you need to do something about it." Max was speechless. He never expected it to get to this point, with this much danger to the citizens of the country. "Max, you there?" the President's voice focused him. "Yeah, sorry. This is unbelievable, I can't believe I let this happen. Can you send me the video?" Max replied, shaken. "Yes. Max, listen: you have to get past what has already happened and turn your focus to what cannot happen. This man needs to be stopped. I'll send you the video, watch it in private, and only show people you can trust. I haven't decided yet if I will make a statement to the people, it could induce panic." "If something like this happens and the public doesn't have any warning, it could be disastrous. People need to know that there is a threat so that they can prepare for the worst. It's only fair to them. Does that make sense?" Max advised. "Yeah I guess, I'll start preparing a statement, you should go watch that video," the President hung up. Max told Michael to come with him and the two of them walked into a private room. The President had wired the video to Max's phone and Max connected his phone to the television on the wall of the room. They played the video and the two of them watched in silence. Immediately, Max recognized the man's voice as the same as the man who apprehended him. He knew that it was a pretty legitimate threat. The contents of the video showed little more than the President had already told Max. Rather than focus on the words the man (now he knew it was Chris) was saying, Max tried to think about the next step in the case could be. The San Diego police department had some software that could triangulate the location from which something was being broadcast, so Max figured that would be worth a shot. Between thoughts, Max could hear the terrorist speak: "You have until Friday at noon to wire the money into my account, or you will have to bid farewell to the most populated city in the world and, probably, the rest of your country." Max looked at his watch; it was nine thirty on Thursday. That left just over twenty four hours for them to track him down and stop the attack. He went over to George and brought up finding the location of where the video was taken. "George, we have some software that can pinpoint the location of things, do you think we could do that with a video?" George inquired. "What do you mean? Like find out where in the world a movie was shot?" George asked, puzzled. "Well, sort of. Would that work?" "No. If it's already been recorded, there's no way to find it. That could only be done if it was being broadcast this second, not some time in the past," George explained. Frustrated, Max walked away. He wasn't sure where to turn next. "What about a computer, that could be tracked, right?" Max asked, searching for any solution. "Of course, that would be easy. As long as the computer isn't extremely well protected, I could find it," George said. Michael, who stood off to the side, listening to the conversation, realized something. "Wait. The man in the video wanted the government to wire money to his bank account, right?" Michael said. "Yeah, so what?" Max said. "Well, if we could get in to the bank's records, we could see if anyone has been monitoring Chris' account," Michael replied. Max finished his thought for him. "If Chris has been looking at his account from his computer, we could hack into his computer through the bank. We could find it's location," Max said. Suddenly, the gears started turning. It wasn't a great plan, but it was a start. George was tentative. "What if his computer isn't with him? What if someone else is looking at the account? There are too many ways this won't work," George said. "That may be, but we need to work with anything we can get at this point," Max said. Michael agreed. "I need to call the White House. They need to know what is happening and I need to know what they plan to do about this threat," Max said, turning away and looking to find a private place to have his conversation.

Chapter Eight: Finally, Max felt a little bit of confidence. They had a plan, which was infinitely better than knowing that there were weapons of mass destruction out there and that there was no way to stop them. For once, he had an idea of what he was going to say to the President. The phone rang, then was answered. "Max? What do you have for me?" the President began. "We think we might have a way to track down this man's computer and therefore, him. We can find him through his bank account. What are you going to do about him, though? Would you give him the money?" Max said. "No, I couldn't. We don't negotiate with terrorists. There is no way this man is getting what he wants. I won't let myself go down in history as the President that backed down to terrorist demands. At this point, it's on you to stop him. You understand?" the President said, holding his ground. "Yes Mr. President, I'll do my best to ensure that no harm comes to the civilians of this great nation. We will be able to track this man's position within twenty four hours. We can get to where he is and stop him from pulling off this attack. Nonetheless, you should warn the people," Max said. "Yes, I am still prepping a statement, it will be delivered in a couple of hours. Hopefully it doesn't set off a mass panic." "Even if it does, it is necessary. The people must be informed that there is a possibility of something like this." "You're right. Now, get back to work and stop this attack." "Yes sir, Mr. President," Max hung up. He went back into the main office in the station. George was already looking at the bank's files and records, searching for Chris' name and account. In a normal case, this would be extremely illegal to go through such confidential information. It amazed Max that George was able to access it so quickly and easily. This could have partially been a function of the bank's security not exactly being top-notch, but mostly, George was very good with computers and knew exactly what he was doing. Max took note of this and wondered why George chose to stay bottled up in his home rather than using his computer talents to help people and to make a difference, something he was obviously doing as he went through the bank's records. "There he is, I found him. Chris Fairley, right?" George said, turning to Catherine for conformation. She looked over his shoulder at the list of names and nodded. "Yup. That's him, alright," she said, sighing. George clicked on the link to Chris' account information and started looking through it. "Here is that fifteen million dollar transfer he was going to make; it was cancelled. Where did he get that money, anyway?" George said, again turning his head towards Catherine. "I don't know, neither of us make that much," she said, thinking. Suddenly, she slapped her hand to her forehead in realization, "shit. I know where he got the money." "Where?" Max asked, rejoining the conversation. "Well, I came in to a lot of money. My parents made a lot on a company they started together. I inherited it, and Chris knew the password to access it," Catherine almost broke down. She couldn't believe that that much money was just gone. Quickly she ran to another computer and found her bank account online. Sure enough, she saw that fifteen million dollars had been taken from the account, that her balance was now dwindling. She was shocked. Catherine had never had to deal with not having enough money to live, and she was now close to having to deal with that situation. She started to weep quietly. Michael came over to her and reassured her as best as he could. "Don't worry. We're going to stop this and we're going to get your money back. The owner of the account never took the money out of it, it'll be okay. You think the bank won't give you your money back when it finds out that it was a terrorist ex-boyfriend whom you eventually helped stop that took the money out of the account. It'll be fine," he said. Still a little teary-eyed, Catherine brought herself under control. Michael went back over to George and observed what he was doing on his computer. "Yeah, here it is. This account is actually being monitored right now, by a laptop," George said. "We can find the location of that laptop, right?" Michael asked. "Yeah. It'll take a little while though. This man definitely knows what he's doing, so he will have tried every possible way to protect his computer from being hacked. What he doesn't know, though, is that I'm better at it than he is," George replied, confident, "He probably set up a bunch of blockades and tried to scramble it so that we find something different than what we actually want, but I can get through it. Once we find out where he is, we go in and take them out: problem solved." "Wait a minute, who is 'we?' " Max said sarcastically. "Okay, fine. //You// go in and take them out. Better?" George said. "Yeah, much better. Michael, let's go figure out how the hell we're going to do this," Max said, beckoning to his partner. The two of them went back into the private room and started to plan.

Chapter Nine: After finally having an idea of what was going to happen and how it was going to happen, Max went home to his hotel room. Again, he was nervous that things would not go as planned. He had a right to be; the people he was up against obviously knew what they were doing. They had tricked them once, who is to say they wouldn't trick them again? Max, this time, felt a little more confident because fewer people knew what was going to happen and their plan was less obvious and harder to predict. Max arrived at the hotel room to see his son and wife sitting on their beds in front of the television. They knew about the events of earlier that morning and also knew not to mention it, as it would put Max in a bad and grumpy mood. Lucy pointed to the television screen. "The President is about to make an announcement, they say it's related to national security," she said. Max, of course, knew exactly what the statement would be about. He knew that in a matter of minutes, the country would be thrown into a state of panic. That panic would persist until the next day at noon, when either a weapon would detonate or the day would be saved; it all rested on the shoulders of Max Townsend, and he knew it. After a few minutes of waiting (they said the President would speak at six thirty, but nothing really happened until almost seven), the President appeared. On the screen, they saw him walk through a doorway and turn onto the red carpet in a hallway. He walked down the hallway to a podium, and stopped. The look on his face was solemn. "Ladies and gentlemen of the United States," he began, "it saddens me to inform you that we currently face an imminent threat to out national security." Even if no singular person knew it, the moment those words were uttered, the entire country came to a standstill. Everyone froze and stopped whatever they were doing, attentive. "We have reason to believe that a terrorist armed with weapons of mass destruction is on United States soil, prepared to attack the country tomorrow at noon. If we don't give this man billions of dollars, he will unleash a bomb on New York City, then hand the rest of the weapons over to terrorist groups. At the moment, we have every possible resource devoted to tracking down and stopping this man and these attacks. However, we advise anyone and everyone to prepare and equip themselves for the worst, just in case. Make no mistake, we //will// prevent this from happening, but the citizens of this country need to be ready regardless," the President said this last line with as much confidence and certainty as he could muster, but one could still tell that this man was anything but certain. "Thank you, God bless you, and God bless the United States of America," he closed. Just like that, he walked away, down the same hallway. As still and quiet as everyone had become during the beginning of his statement, the entire country was thrown into a panic as he finished. The internet exploded with blog topics and conversation threads. Supermarkets were sold out of everything within twenty minutes. People looted and vandalized. It was one of the lowest points in American history. For a US president to come out and announce that there was an imminent nuclear attack was unprecedented. Only JFK had come anywhere near doing the same, and even that was not to the same extent. The country simply did not know what to do. Max, on the other hand, knew exactly what he had to do. He convinced his wife and child that everything was going to be alright, and it even helped himself to hear it. He went to sleep early and woke up equally early the next morning. As he left the hotel room just after five in the morning, he realized that, the next time he saw his wife and kids (if ever), there would either have been a large-scale attack on the United States, or he would be the hero, having saved the country from said attack. He was willing to do whatever it took to make sure that it was the latter.

Chapter Ten: 244 Second Street. The address of the location of Chris Fairley's computer. It was just four miles from the police station. From what George said about the technology in the weapons, they took about half an hour to ready them for launch, but they had to be fired almost immediately after being readied. That meant that, even if Chris tried to arm the bomb just as the police showed up, they would still have time to disarm it before it destroyed New York City. The plan was to, discreetly as possible, put snipers on the roofs around the suspected house. This way, they could prevent anyone going in and out. This was done almost immediately after the address was found out, at about ten thirty. The people on foot, lead by Michael and Max, would penetrate the house from all angles simultaneously. They would crash the house, commandeer the suspects and disarm the bomb. Ideally. By the time everything was set up and everyone was ready to go, it was eleven ten. Once again, George and Catherine stayed back at the station and monitored what happened. They could hear everything that was happening through Max and Michael's radio. "T minus 50 minutes, team. Let's get moving," Max shouted to everyone at the station. They drove to the location in cars that looked almost neutral: large SUVs and a few undercover cop cars. They parked just far enough away so that the people inside wouldn't be able to see them. Slowly, they moved in on the house. Max, Michael and one team were at the front door, another at the back door, and other teams covered all of the windows. No one was getting out of that house. Max counted down quietly, over the radio so that everyone could hear. The team at the back door stormed in a split second before everyone else. On the third and top floor, Chris sat, in front of a computer screen. He heard the commotion from downstairs and knew immediately that it was not good news. He yelled at someone sitting next to him to arm the bomb immediately; they did so. He pulled out his cell phone and sent a text, then pulled out his gun, closed the door, and prepared for people to enter. There were about twenty men working with Chris inside the house. Five were in the room with him, and they all had fully automatic machine guns, all pointed at the door. Downstairs, Max's team burst in through the front door. There were three men in the room in front of him. Max shot one, Michael shot another, and the third ducked behind a couch. After a few seconds, the third man stuck his head out from behind the sofa and fired a few shots in Max's direction. One barely missed Max, but as the man's head was showing, he was shot down by a member of Max's team. Max heard a groan behind him and turned around; Michael had been hit. He bled profusely from his right shoulder. "Take him outside and get him a medic, now!" Michael yelled to no one in particular. One member of his team obliged and carried him back out the front door. In the back of the house, the team had taken out the terrorists in the kitchen. Both teams made their way upstairs and took out everyone on the second floor. They walked up to the third, Max leading the way. He saw that one door was closed. He motioned silently for everyone to surround the door. They did so, and on Max's count, they opened the door slowly. What followed was a flurry of shots. The man who opened the door was shot almost immediately, which set off a chain of shots being fired both ways. Max and the police greatly outnumbered the terrorists, who were all dead in just thirty seconds. Max ran into the room and saw that the bomb was being armed. "Someone come disarm this thing!" he shouted. A tech guy came in and started doing so. The bomb needed just another twelve minutes to be fully armed, and disarming it took less than that. Max walked over to Chris' body and noticed that he had died with his phone in his left hand. Carefully, he took it. The screen read "message sent." Curious, Max went into the man's texts and saw the following message in his outbox: "They found me. Run." Looking at it for a second, he saw the name to which the message was addressed: Harvey Moore. Max gasped. Into his radio, he yelled, "George, the Sergeant was in on it the whole time, he was our mole. Apprehend him, now!" Startled, George stood up from his seat and started towards the door to the Sergeant's office. Almost on cue, Moore stepped out of it, casual. He noticed George and Catherine staring at him, walking towards him, and started to run. He made it about fifteen feet before he was tackled by George. Catherine found a pair of handcuffs and slapped them on the Sergeant. "So, it was you the whole time," she said angrily, "Why'd you do it, anyway?" "Why does anyone do anything in this world?" he said between breaths as his cheek pressed against the floor, "money." With the bombed disarmed and everyone inside neutralized, Max went outside to greet his friend. Michael's arm was already bandaged and in a sling. "How's the arm?" Max said, smiling. "It's okay, everything went well, I take it?" "Everything went real well," Max replied, "let's get back to the station and get you some rest."