Gunsmith Cats Fan Fiction ❯ Ashes Inside ❯ Ashes Inside ( Chapter 1 )

Ashes Inside

Gunsmith Cats fanfic by AZ

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“So, we're done here?”

The man across the worn table from her sneered at her, one hand absently rubbing his crotch. “Yeah, little miss thing,” he accented the last word, “for now, anyway. Figure you'll be back here before the weeks out,” predicted the man, sneer unchanged. “And you be sure to stay in town, huh? We'll have more questions for you as the investigation progresses.”

A tired grunt was all the man got as the woman stood and headed for the door. Reaching back, the man rapped his knuckle against the one-way glass in the interrogation room before he stood, stretching his arms before gathering up the investigation notes and folder jacket. Exiting the room, he saw the woman was already out of the hallway. Glancing into the monitoring room, he saw the police chief and the Mayor's `Special Assistant' leaning their heads together, a folder open between the two of them. “Anything else, or can I go home?” grunted the detective.

“Huh? Oh, yes. I'll expect your report on my desk tomorrow morning,” the chief dismissed him. Grimacing and muttering under his breath, the detective left. He knew better than to think the chief didn't know that his casual remark meant he couldn't go home because he had to type up the report, and by the time he was done, it would be morning. “Fucking bounty hunter scum,” he grumbled, reaching the squad room. He spotted the woman filling out the paperwork to get her stuff back from the desk sergeant.

“Sergeant,” he called, waving. The desk sergeant looked over at the detective. “Not the guns,” he said, fixing his gaze on the woman. Her pen stopped moving, and her head turned toward him. “They're evidence now,” he smiled nastily at the young woman. Her eyes - dark circles under them by this time that had nothing to do with her black eye - briefly flickered with anger, but she just negligently flipped the pen somewhere into the squad room and shuffled toward the door to the precinct. “Be seeing you soon, Vincent!” the detective called after her mockingly, but got no reaction from her. Grunting to himself, he dropped into his worn chair at his desk. “Mother fucking bounty hunters,” he spat before reaching for his by-now cold coffee.

“Detective Tepidski,” a voice interrupted him. Blinking, he saw the senior-most detective in the precinct standing by his desk.

“What you need, Brownell?” he asked sourly. “Shouldn't you have already turned in your shield and piece and be on your way to happy hour at the retirement home?” he added, a nasty undertone in his voice.

“Maybe,” shrugged the older man. “But I couldn't leave without a final bit of advice for the rookie dick,” shot back the man.

“Well, bless me!” snorted the younger detective. “What the fuck could I have done to deserve that?!”

“I don't have that long,” smirked the old detective, “but let's cut to the chase, you green shit,” his tone turned deadly serious. “Two things: first, don't get involved in political shit if you want to live to retirement like yours truly. Secondly, don't blame the bystander for your misfortune, or you will have a nervous breakdown before your first performance hearing.”

“The fuck you on about?” groaned the younger detective.

“The Mayor and his current initiative, for one thing. Those come and go, and no cop that has ever signed on has survived the fall-out when they implode. Secondly, Vincent didn't cause your long day, and you know it.”

Tepidski knew that; intellectually, at least. But it was hard not to take it out on her when he had just spent the last twenty hours interrogating her at the behest of the Mayor's little helper and the Police Chief. There were also the bodies in the morgue, the destroyed flop-house room and the burned cars to deal with. And at least half the bullets the techs were still digging out of the scene were (probably) from the bounty hunter's gun. “You old farts are all sweet on her or something. What gives?” he asked the man who had taught him to be a detective.

“Sweet? Hardly. We respect her. Girl that young, and she's one of the most feared bounty hunters in the city, can outshoot the SWAT team and tries to keep her nose clean? If only we had cops like her!” the old hand said.

“Yeah, `try' is right. Heard she shot a few cops, got mixed up in drugs and organized crime, and has been in near-constant trouble with the ATF boys,” argued the younger detective, rummaging in his desk drawer before finding a fresh pack of smokes.

“If she was what you all are trying to make her, Roy wouldn't have survived and we'd have funerals all week. Like I said,” Brownell stressed, “stay out of the politics and don't blame others for your misfortune.”

“Get out of here and let the real cops work,” Tepidski flipped the old detective off. Brownell eyed the younger man for a moment before moving off.

“Good luck, kid,” he said over his shoulder, exiting the building.

Outside the police precinct, the old man stopped for a moment. Half past two in the morning was not a good time in Chicago; more so in this neighborhood. Looking around, he found himself cataloging the people around him. Gang-banger, drug addict, felon, clueless mugging-bait, gang-banger, drug dealer, pimp, whore, bounty hunter…huh? He blinked away his idle thoughts, seeing a figure leaning against the corner of the concrete guard rails by the steps. “Vincent,” he said, moving closer to the figure. The bounty hunter stirred, turning her head to look at the old detective. “You still here?” he asked, one hand absently touching his non-department issue piece as he saw the attention from the `bangers.

“Car's toast, guns are confiscated, got no money for a cab, and too tired to deal with them,” she vaguely indicated the ne'er-do-wells around the block. She briefly showed him her cell phone. “Phone's dead, too,” she finished, sighing.

“Come on,” Brownell said, taking her arm, “I'll give you a lift home; final favor for an old friend,” he smiled.

“Old? I know I don't look so good right now, but I'm sure not old,” she joked back, but Brownell didn't hear the usual snappiness in comeback. In fact, she just sounded…exhausted.

“Roy,” clarified the detective, turning his head slightly as a couple of the gang-bangers made to follow them. One good look and they thought better of it. Rally hid a yawn with one hand.

“Roy,” she mumbled. “How's he doing?” she asked idly.

Brownell glanced down at her. “You don't know? Thought you were tight,” he said.

“Been…busy,” was all Rally said.

“Florida agrees with him and the wife. He's got a tan, wears shorts and Hawaiian shirts and has taken up fishing,” reported Brownell. Fishing up a key fob, he unlocked his personal car in the parking lot. Rally blinked.

“You off shift already?” she wondered. “Aren't you retiring next month?”

“Today,” he said, looking at her again, eyebrows furrowed. “You ok, Rally?” he asked her.

“Tired,” was all he got as she got into the passenger side of his rather-plain sedan. Brownell hurried to the driver's side and got in, cranking up the car. He saw Rally's head bobbing as she tried to stay awake. “That gun I fixed up for you still running right?” asked the young woman.

“Slick as snot, tight as a drum,” he confirmed. “Gun business going well for you? Maybe you should take a break from bounty work,” he half-suggested.

“Wouldn't that be nice,” Rally said, her voice a bit slurred. Before he could get out of the fenced-in parking lot, she was out cold. Frowning a little, Brownell made his way to her house.

Turning onto her street, he was greeted by the sight of flashing blue, white and red lights. “What is this happy horse shit?” he muttered, glancing over at the still-unconscious young woman beside him. Pulling up to the cruiser blocking the street, he honked twice, getting a patrolman over to his window.

“Detective Brownell, what's this about?” he asked, briefly flashing his wallet like it was his shield.

“Not real sure, Detective,” the patrolman said. “Got a call from a security company about an alarm, then got calls about a fire, got here and there a dead man on the yard, the porch is on fire, and there are Feds crawling all over the place.”

“Tell me it isn't 63321,” Brownell asked.

“How'd you know, Detective?” the patrolman asked. “Feds are looking for the owner, something about an investigation, and the department said they were sending some people over. That's you, right?” he half-challenged.

“Off duty,” Brownell said, seeing the noise was beginning to make Rally stir. Fishing up a stray police card - and remembering how good it had felt to throw the rest of them into the air in the break room during his retirement party - he had one more question. “Fed, you said - what agency?” he asked.

“BATFE, DEA and FBI. Full house,” laughed the patrolman.

“Kid, you haven't seen full house yet,” the detective said, handing him the card. “Give this to whoever arrives from the department, and tell them `I've got her'. Got it?” he asked.

“Got who?” wondered the patrolman.

“Just tell them, rookie,” ordered the detective, backing away enough to K-turn before heading back the way he had come. Rally stirred as they turned the corner.

“Where are we?” she wondered.

“Taking you somewhere you can sleep,” grunted Brownell.

“Just take me home,” yawned Rally.

“Yeah, maybe tomorrow, kid,” he replied. An owlish look was all he got from Rally. Arriving fifteen minutes later at a breadbox house in what was once a suburb of Chicago, he parked on the street before nudging Rally. “Come on, kid,” he said, managing to get her awake enough to stumble through the door to the tiny, messy house. “Couch is shit, but comfortable,” he said as he found a cover in the closet. Hearing faint snoring, he saw Rally was already out, half-on, half-off the couch. “Hey, you can't sleep like that; trust me, I speak from experience!” he protested, moving over to her. Rally was out.

Sighing, he grabbed her ankles and swung them onto the couch. Pausing, he briefly debated with himself before swiftly frisking her. To his surprise, she didn't have a single gun on her. Not even a knife, either. Her shoulder holster was empty, so he removed it after her leather jacket and light boots. As he was removing the empty leather, he realized she was wearing a Kevlar vest. Unbuttoning her blouse, he freed the Velcro straps and pulled it off her, recognizing it as the one Roy said he was giving her for her birthday party three - or was it four? - years ago. Glancing down, he saw she was in a rather small, lacy bra, but his eyes focused on the scars on her light-brown skin. Knife wound, bullet wound, burn, another knife wound with matching bullet wound. That one looks like broken bone stabbed through the skin. Is that a graft scar? he wondered, absently running a finger over a patch of scar tissue on her short ribs. A soft sound from her broke his concentration, and he swiftly got her blouse back on her before unbuckling her belt and unfastening her rather-tight jeans. With that done, he tossed the blanket over her and headed for his own bedroom upstairs.

-

Rally Vincent, Chicago's best bounty hunter and gunsmith, surveyed her home. It was evening of the next day, and she had just been dropped off by a hostile and condescending Federal agent from a rather unpleasant visit to the Federal offices in Chicago. She had been awakened right at sunrise by a pounding on the door. While she tried to get her mind working right, Detective Brownell had answered his door, gun in hand, to find Federal agents wanting to `question' her. She was in handcuffs before she could fully process what was happening and it was only Brownell running interference that kept her from being dragged out like a felon.

The `questioning' had been a long tirade of accusations, demands, threats and some mid-level physical intimidation with no questions to speak of. They had it all figured out and were more interested in telling her what had happened than asking what she knew. Rally had swiftly fallen back into her familiar defensive stance of just doggedly repeating the truth: she had no idea what had happened to who or for what reasons because she had been locked up in the cop shop all the day before, but most importantly during the time the `situation' - as the Feds called it - had unfolded. No amount of attempted baiting, threatening, accusing or bluffing had gotten to her, and finally, they had released her. During the `courtesy' ride home, their agent had all but physically accosted her, assuring her that no one ever got away from the agency, though Rally couldn't honestly recall which of the three he was supposed to be from.

Looking at the front door, she recognized the distinctive marks of a battering ram on what was left of the door and frame. The shallow porch was mostly charred, but at least it hadn't fallen in yet. Moving into the house, she sighed, feeling a migraine coming on. Her stuff was all over the place, very obviously `searched' by the Feds in their normal `careful' manner. Picture frames where shattered - several of them missing the pictures that had been in them - while her couch was upturned, the cushions ripped open and pillow stuffing decorating everything. Moving into her bedroom, she found her bed destroyed and her dresser empty and damaged as well. Looking in her closet revealed her small document safe had been literally torn out, along with a significant section of the studs they had been attached to.

Bracing herself, she had headed to her basement, finding exactly what she thought she would find: nothing. All her guns, gunsmithing tools, ammo, reloading equipment and even her automotive tools were missing, the benches and wall racks torn out - not unbolted, ripped out by what she suspected were go-bars - and thrown into a pile in the center of the concrete room. Her filing cabinets were gone, as was her bigger, heavier safe. Marks, chips and holes showed her where they had apparently used a winch and chain to drag it up the stairs and out the doors. Her migraine grew worse.

Moving back upstairs, she tried to find her charging cord for her phone, only to realize her phone wasn't in her pocket. Thinking back, she was pretty sure the Feds had taken it while searching her. Leaning against the wall in the shallow hallway between her living room and kitchen, she slid down to sit on the floor, face against her crossed forearms over her knees.

A half hour later, she got up and started to look for her house phone. During the search, she found a copy of a search-and-seizure warrant stuck to her wall with one of her forks. No inventory of what they took, just the warrant. She noticed that the time on the warrant was only a few hours before. Eventually finding her phone, she discovered there was no ring tone. “Of course,” she muttered. Looking over at her refrigerator, she saw it had been emptied (onto the floor), and the covers ripped off. “Like a riot went through here,” she mumbled. Finding a more or less unbroken chair, she positioned it in the corner of her living room - out of sight of her window, which had had the blinds and curtains torn off - and stood on it. Reaching up to the crown molding, she began to wiggle it, and a moment later, a two-foot section came away. Behind the somewhat-wide molding was her Absolute Last Ditch Emergency Kit. Detaching the small bags, she negligently tossed the crown molding into the center of the room before stepping off the chair.

As she headed down to the basement, she opened the first bag, revealing a thin stack of hundred dollar bills, tightly folded and wrapped. Tucking the money into her pants' front pocket, she opened the next bag, freeing three keys rubber banded together. The next bag she tucked into her other front pocket unopened before she opened the last bag, freeing a strange-looking piece of metal. In the basement, she moved to the breaker panel.

Removing the cover, she used the strangely-shaped piece of metal to fish around in the space below and behind the service box. Catching it on something, she smiled before carefully working out the looped end of a piece of thin wire. Once she had it secured, she began to carefully tug and wiggle it further out. At the end of the wire was a somewhat thin metal container, sealed like a sardine can.

After replacing the service panel cover, she used the custom bit of metal to open the small can. Inside the can was a solid slab of what appeared to be asphalt or tar. Rally moved to her garage, digging through the mess to find a nearly-empty can of gas, and another of brake cleaner. With those in hand, she got a glass from the kitchen floor and mixed the two in the glass before pouring it over the hard material in the can. After about ten minutes, she used a coat hanger to prod the material, finding it to be the consistency of cosmoline. She hunted for some nitrile gloves before using her fingers to fish out and wipe off small bits of metal from the thick goop.

Thirty minutes later, she was out of brake cleaner but had assembled, lubed and loaded an aluminum-framed Colt Mustang. She had two magazines of high-end defensive hollow points for it, having stored them in three layers of protective wrapping before encasing them in the can.

Tucking the gun into her waistband, she headed up to her bedroom and found her small backpack before swiftly gathering what underwear she could find and some clothes as well as some hygiene and grooming supplies. With that done, she headed downstairs. The sun was going fast, and she had to see what she could do about her front door. Ten minutes later, she gave it up as wasted effort and headed for the street, looking for a cab.

Darkness had fallen by the time she reached the shop. Looking at the front door of her gunshop, she groaned as it, too, was obviously entered with the help of a battering ram. Moving into the shop, she found what she expected: no guns, and the place looking like it had been looted by a mob of rioters. Shaking her head, she moved into the back, finding it looked much the same. Her larger safes had been opened with what looked like a cut-off saw and hydraulic sheers. They were as empty as her cash register.

Standing on the left-most safe, she pushed up the ceiling tile by the register before pulling the fiberglass insulation away from the air vent. Fishing around next to the inner channel, she pulled out two sealed bags before dismounting the safe. In the bags were a cell phone with charger, some money, a couple of knives and tactical flashlights, some Flash drives and a couple of folded sheets of paper. Rally swiftly distributed the contents of the bags before plugging the charging cord into the cell phone and then the wall of the shop. Without waiting for the battery to charge, she dialed a number from memory on the pre-paid cell.

An hour later, she was once more huddled against the base of the wall, this time in her shop's back room. Or, rather, my former shop, she thought bitterly. She had called her lawyer to start the long, expensive, unpleasant process of trying to clean up the mess, only to find out that the damage was worse than she thought.

Her lawyer had informed her that her bank account had been seized on unspecified charges, same as her guns and records. There was nothing for him to do since there were no charges, only an `investigation'. Most of the warrants were sealed under Patriot Act or RICO statutes, too. She had already been living tight on money, but with her accounts seized, she had defaulted on power and utilities on her house and shop, both, so the utilities were disconnecting and it would be unlikely to get service back again. Continuing the good news, he had reported that the state was in the process of seizing her house and shop under some recently-passed `urban renewal' law aimed at ghetto properties and `eye sore' properties. Rally had unhappily been forced to agree that in their current condition, her property likely qualified.

The good news just kept coming. She was being audited by the state and the IRS for tax fraud. Her insurance company - well, the latest of them - had discontinued her auto, home, business and health coverage, and she knew there wasn't another carrier that would cover her. She had gotten a laugh when the lawyer told her that the bank was repossessing her car. It was a burned-out, bullet-riddled wreck in the police impound yard, and she told the lawyer as much. He said he would pass the location along to the collection agency. He had ended the call by saying he was just unable to continue representing her, but he wished her the best success in the future and hoped her day got better.

Sighing roughly, she looked around in the poorly lit shop. “Almost a decade, and this is all I have to show for it: nothing,” she thought aloud. As if fate could hear it, the lights suddenly went out. “Of course,” she said, straightening up and unplugging the phone. The battery was barely charged, but she figured maybe two or three short calls. Moving toward the front of the shop, she spotted a couple of people loitering near the shop. Eyes narrowing, she was pretty sure they were members of Gray's gang; or the gang that had swallowed them up, at least. Even as her hand snaked back to grab her gun, she stopped.

What was the point?

Keeping her eyes moving, she headed out of the shop, leaving it as she found it. She didn't realize she was holding her breath until she let it out as she hailed a taxi and told him to take her to a sit-down restaurant. Might as well eat while the gang-bangers looted her empty, looted shop. It wasn't her problem anymore, anyway, right? Mentally counting the money she had, she ordered a rather large meal - first in two days - and tried to formulate a plan.

As she slowly ate her meal and covertly charged her burn phone, she realized she had to make some decisions. Her initial reaction had been to try to rebuild her life in Chicago, but the more she thought about it, the less sure she was about that. Things had changed while she wasn't looking, it would seem.

Her network of friends and contacts had somehow withered away to nothing. Roy was retired, as was all but maybe one or two of the `friendly' police members. While she counted Brownell as a friend, he was not the same kind as Roy had been. In their place were younger cops, more than half of them corrupt or of the mindset that she was the enemy. Sure, a lot the younger female cops liked her, but they couldn't - or wouldn't - help her out when it mattered, so they were non-issues.

Minnie May was gone, too - married to Ken, with one kid and another on the way. They lived a couple of hours away, in the country, and even then, they lived under cover, as they both had enemies they didn't want to notice them or their kids. Becky, her info-snitch, had gone silent about a year before. She had been acting a bit weird (even for her) for months before she just up and vanished entirely. Since Rally had been mostly retired by that point, she hadn't noticed until more than two months later that Beck was simply…gone. Rally had meant to find out what happened to the info-snitch-turned-stock-market-robber info-thief, but had never managed to follow up on it.

She knew where Misty was, of course. But for intents and purposes, Misty was gone, too. Being Goldie's `pet' meant that Misty might as well be gone. While she and Goldie had managed a peaceful parting, she wouldn't - couldn't - risk another incident with the volatile Amazon gangster. It helped to know that Goldie was old-school organized crime - emphasis on the `organized' part - but only a little. Too much risk there, and she was pretty sure she would rather die than enter the orbit of the bitch again; more so if she was needing a favor.

Yeah, she had civilian friends - like Jenna and her dad - but she knew all too well what mixing civilians and the underworld caused. Four of her most hateful and acrimonious enemies were once just simple civilians who got caught in the crossfire between her bounty work and the opposition. Intellectually, they knew that she wasn't the one that got their family members killed, but emotionally, she was the only one left standing, and therefore was their outlet. Two of them being both fathers of killed daughters and practicing lawyers didn't help any, either.

In the `frenimies' category, even Bill was gone. The BATFE agent had been `promoted' in the best Roman fashion. He had been named to the position of Senior Administrator of the BAFTE training program, which on paper made him powerful and influential. The reality was that he was biding time until retirement. He didn't formulate the curriculum, nor did he teach. He administered the approved courses. Basically, he manned a chair with his ass with no pull or resources outside his campus. Rally sort of recalled hearing they were `offering' him early retirement the same way the Mob `offered' people protection, but hadn't followed up on the rumor.

And her only remaining family, her father, was somewhere even she didn't know. Though she was pretty sure he was in central or south America, she wasn't certain, and had no way to talk to him anymore. Because of what had happened - first with his pursuit of her mother's killers, then his long stint as Goldie's assassin - he would never be able to live normally. No, the rest of his life would be on the run from the literally hundreds of organizations and agencies after him. Rally had once tried to figure out how many were after him, but quickly gave that up as she realized that figuring out who wasn't trying to kill or arrest him and throw him in a bottomless hole was quicker. It was also a shockingly small list. She was reasonably sure the libraries were after him, and probably not the boy scouts and girls scouts, but beyond that, it was anyone's guess. The last time she had heard from him, he had just narrowly avoided a hit team somewhere in Canada, and was going deeper. That had been five years ago.

Riff-raff, the female driver, had faded out of the area and her radar about two years ago. While she wouldn't lie and say she missed the wild card, she did wish she had some contact info on her now. Of course, she wasn't sure how much help the woman would be, given her habits.

There was, in fact, really only one person she could turn to for help. Bean Bandit was still active, and in this area, and was more a friend than an enemy. But once more, she hesitated, weighing the pros and cons of reaching out. The biggest con was her lack of resources. Bean was a pro, and business was business with him. With just barely one thousand dollars to her name, she wasn't sure she could afford him.

Her musing was interrupted by what was playing on the TV at the bar, which she could see from her booth, but not hear. Looking closer as she finished her meal, she recognized her house behind a reporter. Flashing blue lights told her the police were back again. Before she could even begin to wonder what it was this time, the scene changed, and another reporter stood in front of her shop, blue lights flashing again as a covered gurney was wheeled to a coroner van. She was pretty sure she spotted one of the Feds in the background, cell to ear. The picture changed again, showing a years-old booking picture of her from the Kerosene incident. The tip line conveniently scrolled over whatever was supposed to be her crimes. Rally felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand up.

Slipping a folded twenty under the edge of her plate, she covertly collected her phone and pack and as casually as possible headed toward the side door to the outdoor dining area. Reaching it, she eased over to the low fence and hopped over it as discreetly as she could, moving into the parking lot as her fingers dialed a number. Please pick up, she thought to herself.

Five rings later, it did. “What?” growled a deep, menacing voice.

“It's me,” she said, hoping he would recognize her voice. “Please tell me you are available for a deliver in the city,” she said. Silence met her for several moments.

“Type?”

“Point to point, one item, rush,” she said quietly, glancing around. She wasn't sure if it was her imagination or not, but seemed like everyone was watching her.

“Pickup?”

Rally glanced at the street signs and gave him her location. “How long?” she asked as soon as she was done.

“Fragile cargo?” asked the other party instead.

“Sort of. Depends on the situation,” she hedged. “How long?” she asked again, noticing that the same person had been following her since the restaurant.

“Destination?”

“Tell you after pickup,” she said. “Time?” she pressed.

“Five minutes,” the phone call ended. Rally tucked the phone away. With a time frame, she ducked into the next restaurant she saw, and made her way to the women's restaurant. Digging into her bag, she changed her clothes and put on a knit cap before checking her watch. Taking a breath, she headed out and made a bee line for the corner she had set for the meet. Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted the person from before fall in behind her again. Her eyes touched her watch and she slowed her steps slightly.

Right as she reached the corner, a familiar Corvette stopped right in front of her. Before she could sigh in relief, she was jerked back by someone grabbing her pack. “It's her! That terrorist on the news!” someone was yelling as they pulled hard on her pack. Rally struggled to find her balance, catching the door to the corvette opening out of the corner of her eye. Spinning into the pulls, she spotted a pair of foot patrol cops running toward the fracas, as well as a circle of silent on-lookers, most of them with cell phone cameras running. Then, an arm reached past her ear and the man frantically pulling on her backpack was sent sprawling by a simple push to his face.

“Get in, clocks running,” murmured Bean. Rally didn't need to be told twice. She dashed for the corvette.

“Freeze!” came a shout even as she heard gunfire and felt a stabbing pain in her lower side. The cops are shooting at me, part of her thought, half bemused and half angry. Pushing past the pain, she scrambled into the passenger seat, Bean already folding himself into the driver seat. A few more shots were heard, but Bean calmly shifted into gear and roared off like a rocket.

“Buckle up,” he suggested as blue light danced in the rearview mirror. Rally already knew that much. “How bad are you hurt?” he asked.

“Not bad, I think,” she managed.

“Really? You're bleeding on my leather seat,” noted Bean as it was barely small talk.

Rally pressed a hand to her side, feeling the blood. “Fuck,” she sighed, pressing her hand harder to her side. Bean sliced through a four-way intersection against traffic like there wasn't another car on the road, leaving him going the wrong way on a one-way street. Rally glanced over, seeing they were already going nearly one hundred miles an hour, though from Bean's posture and one-handed driving, you'd think they were cruising the strip. “Gotta love that LS-7,” she managed. He glanced over.

“Might want to stop talking,” he noted, shifting up a gear and burying the pedal in the floor, the tires chirping as he dumped the clutch. Rally was shoved back into the seat as Chicago's number-one wheelman worked his magic. Behind them, the blue lights vanished in loud crashes and booming impacts. The big pro four-wheel inertia drifted through two intersections in one slide before slotting into the onramp for the interstate and once more dropping the hammer. Rally blinked as things got a bit darker. The last thing she remembered was Bean fishing up a cell phone and working the dialing pad with one thumb as he gave her a concerned look.

-

Rally opened her eyes, blinking to clear the blurriness. Once she could focus again, she started to sit up, only to stop. Hissing in pain, she touched a fresh bandage on her side. Looking down, she found she was naked and in a medical bed, a machine hooked up to her. Looking around, she didn't recognize where she was. It took her a moment to unhook the machine from herself, which responded with a high-pitched electronic alarm.

Before she could figure out how to shut it off, Bean was in the room. Rally froze, blinking as she stared at him. “Rally, you're awake again,” he said, touching her neck before throwing the sheet aside to study the bandage. Rally's mouth moved, but nothing came out. “Looks like it is healing well,” he nodded to himself.

Looking down, Rally blushed, realizing she was naked. She snatched at the sheet, but missed, hissing in pain from the sudden movement. Bean grabbed her arms. “Settle down, Rally!” he growled, pushing her easily back into the bed. Rally grimaced before blushing again as their positions reminded her that she wasn't the only one naked. Water dripped from Bean's naked body onto her equally naked body. Her eyes flickered south. She swallowed roughly as she realized he looked even bigger now than the first time she had accidentally seen him naked.

“You're in one of my safe houses, so calm down,” he said, easing back as he watched her carefully. She didn't think he realized he was naked. “I called in a doctor I know, and he patched you up. You have been out of it for almost two whole days. Want to tell me what this is about, Rally?” he asked, straightening up and crossing his arms across his chest.

“G…get dressed first, Bean,” managed the woman, looking away but not so much that she couldn't see his - admittedly fantastic - physique out of the corner of her eye. Bean glanced down before indifferently turning and walking over to a small dresser and pulling out a pair of jeans. Stepping into them, he zipped them up, fastened the button, then adjusted himself before moving back to the bed. Yeah, he would need to adjust that monster, part of her thought, dazed.

“Well?”

A great conversationalist he isn't… thought Rally. Sighing, she told Bean what she knew of the last two days. When she was done, he sat there silently, staring at her.

“So, you can't pay?” he asked. Rally grimaced.

“I might not be able to pay full price now, but I don't welch on a debt, and you know it, Bean!” she bit out. Bean considered that. “Rest up, Rally,” he said, exiting the room. Rally didn't know what else she would be doing, and before she knew it, she was asleep again.

Hours later, she was up and looking for her bag. Not finding it, she wrapped the sheet around her and went looking for Bean. The room turned out to be a small loft over an industrial space that apparently served as one of Bean's mechanic bays. She spotted the Buff next to the Corvette, but didn't see any sign of Bean. Moving down a door, she tried that one, finding it to be a sort of office deal. That means I was sleeping in his bed, she realized. Spotting her pack - smeared with blood - by the office chair, she hurried to it and got some clothes out. She had barely finished settling her panties when the door opened and Bean entered.

“One fifty up front, one fifty on delivery. Take it or leave it,” he growled into the phone. The huge man was dressed in a grease-stained tees shirt and a pair of equally-abused blue jeans. “How is that my problem?” he added, giving her a short nod as he moved to the filing cabinet. “Look, getting enough is your problem, not mine. You want me, you pay my rate. Yes or no?” he ruthlessly pushed. “Ok, we have a contract,” he said a moment later. “If you break the contract, it is five hundred thou cash, immediately. Or else what? Or else I rip your spine out and beat you to death with it, smartass,” he growled, ending the call.

“So, you have a job…” began Rally, pulling on a shirt gingerly.

“No, we have a job,” said Bean, opening the filing cabinet and flipping through the files inside before setting out some license plates and maps. “Arms delivery. Need you to verify the goods and be secondary driver if necessary,” he grunted. “Your cut will be thirty thousand. Three day job.”

Rally paused. She had worked with Bean before, and it wasn't that she was worried about him back-stabbing her. What worried her was his offering her a cut of his action. “Why so generous?” she asked.

“A professional gets paid,” Bean said. “You are a pro, and I can work with you. Sharing my job makes sure I don't lose money. Besides, you only have one gun left, right?” he grunted. Rally missed her guns. “Besides, this will give you a seed to start rebuilding,” he murmured.

“I don't plan to,” she admitted, sighing as she worked on a pair of close-fitting pants. Bean turned to look at her, but said nothing. “There's nothing here for me anymore,” she explained.

“So what do you plan to do?” Bean wondered. Rally shrugged.

“No idea yet, but that depends on what happens in the next few days.” Bean absently tapped his finger on the top of the filing cabinet.

“My offer is still open,” he said, turning back to the maps and license plates. “Breakfast is down in the shop, if you're hungry?” he added without looking. Rally made her way down to the floor of the space, finding cold pizza, beer and some fruit on a greasy work bench. Sighing, she took a slice of pizza and some fruit. An hour later, she and Bean were on the road in a Marauder with a serious supercharger under the hood. It took them almost eighteen hours to reach their pickup spot, where Bean took over the driving of the big rig with the shipping container on the back, Rally assuming the role of blocker in the big Mercury sedan, having bleached her hair blonde and adopted a pony-tailed look under a baseball cap with dark sunglasses.

After they dropped off the container - and after Bean reminded the contact of the terms and what would happen if they broke the agreement - the two had hit a cheap motel before heading back toward the Windy City. While Bean was showering, Rally flipped on the news, only to find herself once more prominently featured. Still no official charges, just a `person of interest' in an ill-defined terror/crime investigation. She was a little bothered by the fact that she didn't really feel anything at being on the other end of things. She turned off the news as Bean emerged from the bathroom. Once Rally was in the shower, Bean powered up a new cell and made a couple of calls.

-

“You look good as a blonde.”

Rally nearly drew her gun on the guy who slipped into the seat opposite her in the shabby greasy-spoon she had gone to in order to make a couple of calls. It had been two months since her first run with Bean, and in that time, she had been re-equipping and weighing her options. “How did you find me?” she gritted out. The man raised his hands briefly.

“Doesn't matter. This is for you,” he said, sliding an envelope to her across the fairly-unclean countertop. Eyeing him suspiciously, she collected the envelope and dropped it to her lap before opening it a bit. “Mistress might not mean anything to you, but that doesn't mean she doesn't care about you,” the man said before walking off. Rally was tempted to shoot him, but instead she swiftly gathered her things and headed out herself, climbing into the car she was `borrowing' from Bean - a '64 Mustang with a hand-built `Bean Special' 302 in it. It reminded her of her GT 500. She had her `Rally Specials' and he had his `Bean Specials'.

Making her way back to the house she was sharing with Bean - another of his apparently-endless safe houses - by a circuitous route, she pulled into the garage and waited before finally exiting the garage after twenty minutes of waiting and watching. Entering the house, she dropped off the small bag of supplies she had gotten before dropping onto the couch and going through the envelope more carefully. After looking through everything twice, she sat back, weighing her options.

A couple of hours later, Bean turned up and immediately began to fix himself some food. Watching Bean eat was something that fascinated her in a morbid way. He was, she had discovered, given to eating a half-dozen eggs, a pineapple and a sausage roll with a pot of coffee and a beer or two for breakfast. She ate with more moderation, preferring cereal, fruit and a single egg, sometimes with fruit. Bean loved red meat, and would eat almost anything. How he maintained his impressive build mystified Rally. She never saw him exercise, but he could sprint for a half mile and only be slightly out of breathe, and he could pick up a guy by his neck, lift him over his head and throw him down a flight of stairs with one arm without a sign of strain.

She herself exercised as she usually did, and ran on a treadmill when she could. It pleased her that her size hadn't changed in years. “You ok, Rally?” came Bean's voice from the kitchen. Like all Bean's safe houses, this one was dated, a bit run down and hardly what one would call comfortable if one planned to live there normally.

“Yeah. Got a visit from Goldie's henchman - Dennis - today,” she shared. Bean grunted. “Dropped off something; allegedly from her, but it feels more like Misty,” she shared.

“So?” Bean replied, using one of his many, many knives to flip the huge steak he was pan frying.

“Any idea what a clean identity would cost?” Rally asked. Bean turned to look at her for a long moment before returning to his cooking.

“Considering your situation, probably a half mil for one that would hold up,” he said a moment later. “I wouldn't spend the money myself,” he added a moment later. Rally was silent. Later, after Bean had eaten and was watching some football game on the TV, she activated a clean pre-paid phone and made a few calls. Pulling the battery to the phone when she was done, she sat down beside Bean on the couch.

“Bean, we have anything for the next bit?” she asked.

“Not for the next month or so,” he answered without looking away from the TV. “Problem?”

“Teach me to fight with knives?” she asked him. Now, he did look over at her.

“You are a gun fighter, Rally,” he said flatly. “I've seen you with a knife, and it ain't your thing.”

“Make it my thing,” she said, turning to face him squarely. Bean studied her for a long moment before turning back to the game.

“I'll think about it,” he said. Rally squashed her impatience and waited.

-

One of the things she hadn't thought she would miss was having a female friend to shop with. When she and Minnie May were living together - and later when Misty was living with them - she was always being dragged out shopping by one or the other. It wasn't so much the shopping she would complain about, of course - it was the `frivolous' clothes shopping that nearly always occurred.

Naturally, she did shop for clothes fairly often. Her `hobby' tended to go through them fast. And it wasn't that she didn't want to try on (and buy) clothes - it was that she tended to a much more utilitarian set than either Minnie or Misty. Even Becky was more of a clothes shopper than her.

She smiled a little as she recalled how Minnie would try on just about everything in her size in every store, insisting on modeling the items for her and asking her opinion even though she only rarely listened. Rally had always said she hated that part. Now, she wished she had a girlfriend to help her out with her choices.

It doesn't help that I'm a red-head now, either, she thought as she looked at herself in the mirror of the changing room. A week ago, she had been recognized somehow while doing a small job with Bean in Boise, and after getting away - thanks to both her skills and Beans - she had changed the bleach for dye, going for a deep coppery-red. They hadn't gone back to the last safe house they had been at just in case, and she had lost her work `suitcase' - which was a backpack - in the changeover. So, she was clothes shopping at a large mall in Texas.

Of course, Bean had completed his wardrobe repair in less than twenty minutes, since jeans and tee shirts were not hard to come by; even in the size he wore. Bean had been indifferent to anything else, finding the right size and weight jeans, pulling five pairs from the shelf, grabbing a pack of cotton tee shirts and briefs before calling it done. He had headed to the drug store to get some hygiene supplies, leaving her on her own to restore her kit.

She had picked up some exercise clothes and something to sleep in already, but she needed every-day clothes and work clothes, too, as well as all the other things that went with it for a girl. That thought brought a wry smile to her lips, too, as she unclipped the bra she had been trying on, placing it in the `keep' pile. Her fake ID said she was Iris Valencia, age twenty seven. She had just turned twenty one the day before, though as Rally, that would have made her twenty four.

Pushing those thoughts aside, she gathered up what she had chosen to buy and made her way to the register, adding the underwear and outfits to her workout clothes bag before heading toward the drug store as well. She quickly picked up the basics - toothbrush, toothpaste, mouthwash, deodorant - before adding some simple makeup and perfume. Passing the women's health section, she found her preferred brand and type of tampons, adding that as well before grabbing some vitamin supplements, pain killers and ointments. Pausing on her way to the checkout, she mentally argued with herself before grabbing a box of condoms as well. You never knew when you might need to protect your bore, right?

As always, she paid cash and avoided small talk with the cashier. Exiting the store, she pulled up her latest phone and dialed Bean's current cell number. He gave her a gate and time then ended the call. Rally met him at the right exit, swiftly sliding into their current car, Bean pulling away almost before she had shut the door. Rally wrestled the bags in her arms into the back seat, seeing a few already there; along with a case of beer and some basic groceries. “Where we going?” she asked.

“Got a stop to make, then dinner,” he said. Rally was intrigued. Bean rarely deviated from his basic habits.

“Work stop?” wondered Rally.

“Nah. Just something that might be interesting,” he said, hitting the interstate. They drove for nearly three hours, leaving Texas behind before Bean exited and headed into what seemed to be desolate scrub on a highway. Twenty minutes later, she spotted cars ahead in the fading light. Grabbing her compact binoculars, she scanned the gathering. She spotted muscle cars, tuners and bikes. Glancing at the map, she saw they were nearing the intersection of a state highway and a state road with nothing for miles around.

“Car show?” she asked.

“Among other things,” Bean grunted. Glancing over at her, he frowned. “Got anything less classy in those bags?” he asked. It was Rally's turn to frown. She was wearing a nice if plain skirt and a blouse without single ruffle or accent.

“How less classy?” she asked, her tone suspicious.

“Motor-head or biker chick,” Bean replied. Rally sighed. “Also, leave the big gun,” added her current…she wasn't sure what. Partner, teacher, protector - they all applied, and all didn't apply. Quickly deciding on what to do, she twisted around to find what she needed in the bags before hastily removing her blouse and skirt. With only a moment of hesitation, she also discarded her bra before pulling on the shirt she had bought to sleep in - a spaghetti-strapped mid-riff tank-top that was paper-thin cotton and a little close fitting on her. Wiggling her skirt off, she pulled the leather short shorts she had gotten for work up her legs, sucking in her breath a bit to fasten the button before zipping up the short zipper.

“Skanky enough?” she asked Bean even as she found a magnetic lip stud and a pair of hoop earrings. Around her wrist was a hair band she would tie her hair back with. Bean glanced over at her.

“Yeah. Remember - the small gun and a knife or two,” cautioned the huge man. Rally nodded, fixing her hair as they arrived at the edge of the crowd.

For the next four hours, they worked through the crowd, Bean checking out the cars and even getting into a couple of races and a tiny fight while Rally also checked out the cars and bikes and played at being Bean's bitch. For some reason she couldn't identify, it didn't bother her that much. As the temperature dropped, she noticed her nipples were prominently displayed through the thin shirt; but then, so were all the other women's. Blending in was important.

When Bean finally grabbed her arm and steered her toward their car, she had had two cups of beer and was feeling them. Exiting the gathering - which was breaking up anyway - they drove for another hour and a half before Bean pulled into an isolated motel in a tiny, mostly empty town. Rally waited while he ducked into the office, emerging minutes later and leading her to the end unit, parking their car at the end of the strip, right next to their unit.

Rally followed Bean in, smiling a little as she did so. After checking the room, Bean turned to see Rally sitting on the bed, smiling at him. Looking closer, he sighed. “You had two cups of beer, Rally. How can you be drunk?” he asked.

Rally giggled. “Never been a drinker,” she replied. Flopping back on the bed, she giggled again. Her shirt rode up, leaving her nipples exposed. “Besides, I'm not drunk,” insisted the young woman. Bean shook his head.

“Sleep it off,” he growled, stepping into the bathroom. When he came out ten minutes later, he found Rally already in bed, her clothes carelessly piled in the chair next to the bed. Shaking his head, Bean climbed into bed with her. It wouldn't be the first time, but it would be the first time she was drunk. Turning off the light, he froze for a second as he felt Rally cuddle up to his side. From the feel of things, she was totally naked; as was he. “Rally,” he began.

“Just want to talk,” she said, cheek to his left pectoral muscle. Her leg slid over his and hooked behind his knee. Against his side, he could feel the hard points of her nipples.

“You are a lesbian, Rally. You will hate yourself in the morning,” predicted the big man.

“I'm not a lesbian,” insisted Rally. “Probably,” she mumbled. Bean could smell her scent - gunpowder under light perfume, with a touch of sweat. He admitted he didn't mind how she smelled. Against his wishes, he could feel himself hardening.

“What did you want to talk about?” he asked, hoping she would fall asleep before they did something he was sure she would regret.

“You don't have any friends, do you, Bean,” Rally said, her lips brushing against his chest.

“I have you,” he replied, avoiding an answer.

“I mean…you know what I mean,” pouted Rally.

“So?”

“It is hard?” whispered Rally.

“What are you talking about? Better not be what it sounds like,” he muttered.

“Being alone. Is it hard?” Rally wondered, hugging herself to him a bit more. Awkwardly, Bean eased an arm around her.

“I guess, but I never really had any friends, so it's just normal for me,” he dismissed the question. “Where are you going with this, drunk girl?” he asked, smiling in the dark.

“Not sure yet,” murmured Rally. “Just…” she trailed off. Minutes later, she shifted, climbing on top of him.

“Rally…!” began Bean.

“Just…for tonight,” she whispered, pressing her face to his chest. “For my birthday,” she added. Bean knew that she must feel his hard dick pressing against her groin. He sure as hell could feel the heat and moisture of her pussy against his dick. Wrapping his arms around her, he waited for her to make her move, but several minutes later, he realized she had succumbed to sleep.

“Damn it,” he muttered.

-

Rally watched the house, as she had for the last two days. Checking her watch again, she decided it was now or never. Honestly, never was looking better the longer she thought about it. Forcing those thoughts aside, she climbed out of her car - a non-descript Taurus rental - and walked down the sidewalk, absently adjusting the large sun hat she had bought the day before. Approaching the walkway to the front door, she knelt as if something had gotten into her sandals, using the move to discreetly glance around.

Straightening up, she lightly stepped to the front door and rang the bell, knowing that her target was home because she had seen him return fifteen minutes ago, golf bag over his shoulder. In her mind, she heard Bean's final words to her before she took off on this errand. But if I don't check, I can't know, Bean, she silently argued with the big pro. Her musing was cut short as she heard the unmistakable click! of a safety disengaging.

“Still carrying that 1911, I see,” she said, slowly raising her hands to show they were empty.

“Yeah, it hasn't let me down yet,” answered the man. “You're a red-head now? Can't say I think it is an improvement,” he added. “Why are you here, Rally? I'm retired. I can't help you anymore.”

“Do I need help, Roy?” she asked, slowly turning to face him. The former detective was a pace behind her, .45 in hand, pointed discreetly at her spine from hip level.

“Do bears shit in the woods, kid?” a voice came from behind her - in the doorway to the house.

“Brownell,” she identified the voice. “I hope you are using my Rally Special,” she added, her tone calm and collected. Her eyes swept the street in the new subdivision. While she had seen retired people only so far, she wouldn't put it past them to be nosey neighbors. “Can we talk, or should I be on my way?” asked Rally.

“That driver, Bean Bandit or whatever he's called, with you?” asked Roy.

“No.”

“Inside,” sighed Roy, Rally hearing the safety click back on. “Before the neighborhood gossips notice,” he added sourly.

Stepping inside the house, she saw Brownell tucking her custom gun away. She smiled a little, seeing the faint signs of sunburn on him, as well as from the outfit he was wearing. “Hawaiian shirts and knee-shorts don't really work for you, Brownell,” she said, smiling.

“I'm getting that impression,” he gave her a half-smile. “You, on the other hand, look much better than the last time I saw you,” he offered.

Rally was wearing a short, light, thin sleeveless sun dress with some comfortable sandals and the large sun hat. Her sunglasses were tucked into the notched neckline of her dress, a thin watch on her left wrist, small purse slung cross-body and her red hair back in a ponytail. Glancing at herself, she shrugged. “Not being sleep-deprived and grilled by law enforcement for hours after a shootout will do that for a girl,” she replied. Her eyes flickered around. “Wife not home, Roy?” she asked.

“Won't be for hours - scrapbooking club and bridge night,” he answered. “Just as well, too - she never really understood you, and wouldn't be too keen on you visiting, I suspect,” he added honestly. Rally's smile dropped off her face.

“Probably not. This is looking more and more like a bad idea,” she sighed.

“You made the trip,” replied Roy. “Why not at least have a drink before leaving?” he hinted, holding up a pitcher of some sort of drink.

“Ugh. Not lemonade again. Gimme a beer,” Brownell said. Roy tossed him a bottle before pouring a glass of lemonade for Rally. Handing it to him, he got a beer himself before sitting in the living room. Brownell took a seat as well, Rally joining Roy on the couch.

“You do look good, Rally,” Roy said, glancing over at her as she toyed with the ends of the thin cord tie in her dress. “What's the deal? Why are you down here?” he asked directly.

“And are you armed?” Brownell wondered. She glanced over at him.

“What do you think?” was all she said. “Honestly, I mostly came here to see if you had anything on what is going on with this mess. I'm a little low on intelligence sources right now, with everyone…out of the loop,” she carefully said. “I did buy a few police sergeants, but all they could get me was that I was wanted for questioning, but there is no official warrant for my arrest. All my assets and belongings have been seized, but no charges have been filed, nor is any information available. Don't suppose you might have heard anything different, Roy?” asked the woman.

“I'm retired, like I said,” Roy replied, sipping his beer. “Brownell, you got anything?” he asked.

“Nothing more than she already found out, but the whole thing seems dodgy to me,” he snorted. “Why not just go to the station and talk with them, Vincent?” he asked.

“After what happened last time? No, thank you!” replied Rally. “That detective probably wrote a pretty fanciful report, too, given how hostile he was,” she grimaced a little before sipping her drink. “And the Feds are just looking for a chance to lock me up again.”

“They did seem a little put out, didn't they, Roy?” grinned Brownell. Roy chuckled, reaching over to clink his glass of beer with Brownell's.

“So they did, my friend, so they did,” he laughed before sipping his beer. Rally gave them a questioning look.

“We got visits from the Feds several times in the days right after it went sideways, kid,” Brownell filled in. “FBI, BATFE, DEA - hell, I even got a visit from ICE! How about you, Roy?” he asked.

“ICE? Seriously? No, missed that one, thank god. Did get a visit from the sheriff down here, though, on behalf of the state police. You?” replied Roy.

“No. Guess that makes us even. They tried to take my Rally Special, but I lawyered up on them and they backed down, since the gun had been bought years before,” he shared. Rally was staring at her glass of lemonade, a frown on her face.

“I see,” she murmured, absently turning the glass around in her hands. “I shouldn't have come,” she murmured. “Bean was right about that, anyway,” sighed the woman, leaning her head back as she closed her eyes.

“So you are running with that pro driver,” Roy mused. “Rally…”

“Bean is a pro, and I am not running with him. More like…sheltering with him until I figure out my next move,” Rally said, straightening up. And I think I know what I need to do, she said, a grim look crossing her face. “Did they ever find any of my friends?” she asked the two directly, her tone and posture all business now.

“Not that we ever heard. They disappeared real well,” Brownell said. Rally nodded to herself.

“I see. Roy, I want to ask you for a final favor, if you would,” she said, setting the drink down on a coaster on the table. Reaching into the small purse, she withdrew a small notebook and a pen.

“I don't like your choice of words, Rally,” Roy replied, looking slightly worried. He was ignored as Rally wrote out a single sentence on a sheet of the notebook paper, which she tore off and handed to him.

“Please, Roy,” she said, giving his hand a squeeze before she rose. “Sorry to drop by out of the blue. Enjoy your retirement - you've earned it,” she said, swiftly heading out the door. Roy set down his beer with a muttered curse and hurried after her.

“Hey! Rally!” he called, keeping his voice down as much as possible. Rally paused, halfway down the walkway. “When am I going to see you again, kid?” he asked. She turned to give him a warm smile.

“Who knows?” she said, her tone playful. With that, she was gone. Roy exhaled.

“She's not coming back, you know that, right?” Brownell said from behind him.

“That's what I'm afraid of,” Roy said, looking at the paper in his hand. “You still got that CI in the mob back in Chicago?” he asked.

“Yeah, but he's been useless since the big re-shuffle up there,” Brownell said. “Nobody crosses Goldie, and Goldie keeps everyone in line. It pays not to mess with her; as the FBI discovered,” he grunted.

“Give this to him when you head back. And Tim,” he made eye contact with his old friend, “make damn sure he knows this is for Goldie. Got it?” Brownell nodded, holding out his hand. Seeing the note, he knew his instincts about Rally were right. “Come on,” Brownell said, slapping Roy on the shoulder. “Leave a note for the wife and let's go get hammered in memory of the late, great Rally Vincent - toughest bounty hunter the Windy City ever saw!”

Several blocks away, Rally parked near a beach access and headed out onto the sand. Most people were leaving the beach, which was perfect for her. Pulling out her current burn phone, she dialed a number, let it ring once before hanging up and dialing the number again, once more hanging up after the first ring. Five minutes later she called the number, and let it ring five times before hanging up. Sitting down in a spot that gave her good vantage of the beach and approaches, she waited. Less than ten minutes passed before her phone rang.

“Hello,” Rally said.

“Long time, no hear, and then it's like this?” came the voice of the other caller. “Where have you been girl?!”

“Here and there. Listen, I figure you know what has been going on, so I'm just going to cut the chase. I'm gone, May. I wanted you to hear it from me, so there is no question.” Rally said.

“The hell you are, Rally!” came the screaming voice of Minnie May from the other end of the line. “You get your ass up here right now…!” ordered May.

“Keep an eye out, May - they won't stop digging for years. Oh, and this phone is done, too. Goodbye, May - I know you will make a great mother,” Rally said, ending the call on whatever May was screaming at her. Pulling the battery from the phone, she buried the phone in the sand before heading back to the car. Reaching the car, she pulled a new phone with a new number from her glovebox, inserted the battery and sent a single text before cranking up and pointing her car north. She had a lot of driving to do. Fortunately, she was in the mood for it.

-

“Mistress?” blinked Misty, seeing Goldie methodically destroying her `Rally Shrine'.

“Pet,” Goldie began, only to stop, shaking her head. “Dennis,” called the amazon drug queen. A few moments later, Dennis appeared. “I want them, Dennis,” hissed Goldie. “Every last one of them responsible for this…goat-fuck!”

“I understand, mistress,” he said, giving her a shallow head-bow. “It will take some time…” he added.

“I don't care. Use what you need to, how you need to. I. Want. Them.” she repeated herself. Dennis nodded.

“Mistress?” Misty repeated herself. Goldie stepped over the girl, staring into her eyes for a long moment.

“Rally is gone, Pet,” she said.

“Gone? You mean…dead?” Misty breathed, feeling her heart skip a few beats.

“Unlikely, but it means little, since she will likely not be seen again,” sighed Goldie, absently stroking Misty's mostly-naked body. “She thought of you, though; of both of us, actually,” smiled Goldie. Reaching into her top, she pulled out a small piece of paper and handed it to her pet. Unfolding the paper, Misty read the message.

“Goldie, cherish Misty because I'm gone, signed Rally Vincent” she read aloud. “Mistress! Surely there must still be time…!” began the girl, only to see Goldie shake her head.

“That note is already three weeks old. You know Rally. By the time it reached me, she was probably already in another hemisphere. And unfortunately, there is no one left who might know where she would go,” Goldie said sourly.

“Her father must…!” began Misty.

“Vanished. Like he never existed. Years ago and no one has heard a single thing about him since,” denied Goldie. Trust me, I want my trained attack dog back! she left unsaid.

“If I can find Minnie May…!” Misty tried again.

“Even if you could, they wouldn't speak to you, Pet, and you know it. Besides,” sighed Goldie, “three of our deliveries mysteriously blew up a couple weeks ago. It was May, and she made it very clear that she blames me - us - for Rally disappearing. I gave my word I would leave her friends alone, and I keep my word. I had Dennis get her off our back, but that is the best we can ever hope for from her from here on out,” Goldie shook her head.

“We could hire Becky…!” Misty tried yet again.

“Yes, I thought of that, too. But no one has seen or heard from Becky in more than two years. I have feelers out, but I doubt miss Farrah will trip over any of them. She could well be dead by now, you must realize.”

“But…mistress!” Misty slowly collapsed to her knees, tears in her eyes. Goldie squatted down before pulling the girl to herself.

“I know, Pet,” she assured the girl, easily lifting her by the leather straps that were her only clothes and carrying her to the bedroom. “And those responsible for this will pay. But for now, I will grant Rally's last wish, and cherish you.”

-

“So, that's it, then?”

“Yeah. Thanks, Bean,” Rally said, shifting her suitcases. Bean nodded, closing the trunk of the Mercedes they had driven. “I mean it, Bean - thanks. For everything,” she repeated, stepping into him and giving him a hug. Bean hesitated for only a second before hugging her back.

“No problem,” he murmured. “You paid well,” he added. Rally shrugged. “Come on,” he said, locking the car with the remote, “you'll miss boarding call.” He easily picked up her two larger suitcases with one hand, the other catching one of her hands. The young woman blushed, but didn't resist. With the big, imposing Bean Bandit leading, people just sort of got out of the way. Probably for the best, she thought, smiling. That jacket of his alone could break their bones!

In short order, she was about to board, but found herself still holding Bean's hand at the base of the boarding ramp. “You better board,” he said, watching her from behind his sunglasses.

“Yeah, I better,” Rally agreed. Bean fished in his jacket pocket for a moment before handing her a single sheet of paper. “Just…the offers open, and you can reach me by that number,” he said, glancing away as he offered her the paper. Rally took the paper, tucking it into her top.

“Bean,” she said, tugging on his hand. When he focused on her again, she jumped up enough to wrap her arms around his neck as she pressed her lips to his. Bean almost fell over. Shoot him with a shotgun, run him over with a car, hit him with a crane hook and he barely reacts, but kiss him and he nearly fall over! a part of her thought gleefully. Breaking the kiss, she dropped back down to her feet. Smiling warmly at him, she turned and made her way up the boarding ramp.

Bare minutes after she boarded, the ramp was retracted, the lines were cast off, and the ship backed away from the pier. It was a two-week passage to her first spot, and she intended to make the most of it. The chances of her staying where she was bound were small; very small truthfully, but it wasn't like she had pressing business anywhere anymore, and though she had money put aside, she planned on doing something to fill her time. In her pack was her fresh, new identity, a couple of firearms and a fresh start.

FIN