by C. R. Daems
"Ms. Vansise, what can I get for you tonight?" he asked while trying not to look in my direction.
"What would you recommend, Raymond?"
"There's Swordfish on the menu, and it came in fresh this morning."
"That sounds good. The house Chardonnay, a Caesar salad, and the Pesce Spada Mia Notte. And ask Chef Lionetti if he could prepare something a person can eat with one hand, not too messy, and as tasteless as he can make it." She gave me a smug look over her shoulder. "And a glass of milk."
"Perfect," I said while continuing to scan the restaurant. By now, everyone had returned their attention to their companions and meal, with only an occasional glance in my direction, which was quickly averted when they caught me looking at them.
"Yes, Ms. Vansise," Raymond said, and he beat a hasty retreat. After she had finished her salad, Raymond returned with her Swordfish dinner and what looked like a meatball sub without sauce. "Is there anything else I can get for you?"
"Yes, Raymond. Another glass of wine," she replied and as he departed, "I should probably order a bottle or two."
"Don't. You'd have to sleep it off in the car because I'm not suicidal and don't have a driver's license."
She shook her head and began eating. After dinner and the second glass of wine, she seemed to relax and to forget about me standing behind her. She lingered with coffee and Tiramisu for dessert.
It was only a short, and thankfully peaceful, drive to Maywood and her house. When we arrived, there were five people walking up and down on the lawn in front of her house. A car was parked on the opposite side of the street. Since all the other cars were in driveways or garages, I assumed it was the FBI agent who was supposed to be guarding her house.
"Damn it," Vansise said, stopping the car at the curb because two men were standing in the driveway. They had baseball bats with a baseball glove hanging around each one. Nice touch, since it gave the appearance of two men returning from a game. But the game was Vansise. I got out and walked around the car as two other men and a woman came strolling toward the car with signs reading "Frack Shale Energy," "Frack Vansise," and "Fracking the world and its children."
"You come to Frack us?" said a tall athletic man in his thirties as he moved to meet me. As I continued to approach him, he stopped, unsure what to do. When I was only a few feet away, I drove a front kick into his groin, kneed him in the face as he bent in pain, and snatched the bat out of his hand. As his mate watched, I rotated the bat over my head in a circle, ending at his kneecap. He screamed and collapsed. Couldn't blame him, it must have hurt more than the kick to his balls.
Now the biker-looking man's face had turned ugly. As he strode to meet me, I nodded to Vansise to proceed into the garage.
"You bitch, I'm going to teach you a lesson you'll …" He stopped as he realized the garage door was opening and Vansise was slowly entering the driveway he was no longer blocking. He smiled—at least I think that was what his contorted face was attempting to do. "After I Frack this bitch's face." He raised his bat, preparing to smash the driver's window. I shot him in the chest. As he staggered back, I fired two more shots into him. When I turned toward the three with signs, they were backing up. After a few steps, they dropped their signs and scattered at a run.
"Drop that gun and get on the ground," a man said as he got out of the parked car.
"I guess you've finished your coffee and donuts." I turned and walked up the driveway.
Vansise leapt from the car, waving her arms over her head. "Don't shoot! She's a ZAP agent."
"Stop or I'll shoot," he shouted again while trying to open his cell with his other hand.
I touched her arm and gently guided her into the garage.
"He could have shot you!" she said as the garage door slid closed.
"No. He's standard FBI security. He wouldn't shoot unless I shot at him—too many repercussions. He'll call for backup. It's easier and safer."
"What's going to happen to you?"
"Nothing. Now if I let him hurt you, Director Liang would be very disappointed, and I would be depressed for months." I hit "1" on my speed dial and put it on speaker.
"Yes, Kate?"
"Director, I've got an FBI clown outside wanting to arrest me for shooting … correction, killing a man who was attempting to damage Ms. Vansise. He's probably calling for backup as we speak."
"Try not to shoot anyone else." The phone went dead.
"A lady of few words. Hopefully, the situation will be resolved before I have to shoot anyone else."
Vansise walked unsteadily into the front room and collapsed onto the couch. "Why?" She put her head in her hands. "The country needs an alternative source of energy, and we have an abundance of natural gas. Admittedly, Fracking is new technology, but if the technique has issues, we need to address them. Killing me isn't going to make the technology go away."
"This is Captain Wilson, Illinois State Police. The house is surrounded. Come out with your hands in the air" The voice sounded like it came from a megaphone. When I didn't answer, he tried several more times. On the fifth try, the phone rang and Vansise answered.
"Yes? ... No, I’m not a hostage ... She's my bodyguard ... No. She's a ZAP agent." Vansise put the phone down. "He's coming to the front door, unarmed."
A few minutes later, there was a knock at the door. "I'm Captain Wilson and I'm unarmed. I've just talked to Director Liang."
I stopped Vansise when she started toward the door.
"Is it locked?" I asked. She nodded. "Just one minute, Captain." I moved Vansise to a place where she couldn't be seen when the door opened, then went to the door, unlocked it, and stepped back so I could see who entered but wasn't in a direct line-of-sight from the street.
"Come in, the door is unlocked," I said after I was comfortable I could handle a multiple-person attack through the door.
The door opened slowly and a tall, broad shouldered man entered with his hands in plain sight. He closed the door behind him. Smart man.
"I apologize for the confusion. The FBI man who called in the request for backup failed to mention it was a ZAP agent who shot the man and took the owner into the house. The officers who arrived assumed she was being held hostage." He shrugged. "If you would show me your badge and give me the basics of what happened, I'd appreciate it."
"Ms. Vansise, if you wouldn't mind getting the Captain and yourself something to drink? We can relax, and I'll answer Captain Wilson's questions. Vansise nodded, looking somewhat dazed.
"Wine or coffee?"
"Coffee please, although the events probably call for something stronger," he said with a grin. I walked over to him and produced by identification then reversed it so he could read the back. He spent several seconds examining it.
"Interesting. This is the first ZAP ID I've seen. That's equivalent to the authority of a combat marine in Afghanistan."
"The powers-that-be are tired of people hiring assassins to kill our citizens because they disagree with them, so they created a special branch of the FBI with rules of engagement to deal with them," I said. He seemed like a reasonable man and there was no reason for me not to be sociable. Besides, I thought it would help relax Vansise, who was having a bad day—getting used to having a ZAP agent, an attack on her person, seeing a man killed, and a swat team threatening to storm the house.
Several minutes later, Vansise came walking over to the table, placed a cup of coffee in front of Wilson, a glass of milk in front of me, and sat with a glass of wine. I remained standing—better if I had to move quickly.
"As we arrived back at Ms. Vansise's house …" I gave a reasonable account of the events. I was just finishing when the door opened. I spun down into a snake stance, gun out.
The man at the door stopped and Wilson had the sense to remain motionless. "Freeze," I said as the man's hands moved toward the front of his blue FBI jacket where he probably had his badge, hanging around his neck.
"I'm FBI agent Babbino. I'm in charge of Ms. Vansise's detail."
"Are you the one whose agent failed to alert the police that men with bats and threatening signs were blocking the entrance to Ms. Vansise's house, and who failed to come to her aid when they attacked her? That senior agent?" I asked.
He took a step forward.
"One more step, and it's your last. I don't know you, and will assume you intend to harm Ms. Vansise."
"I'm an FBI agent!"
"This bullet won't care. As far as I can determine, the FBI has provided Ms. Vansise no protection and caused Captain Wilson and his men a great deal of unnecessary trouble. And now you feel you have the right to barge in here without being invited and demand attention. If you want to talk to Ms. Vansise, call for an appointment. Now, out!" I pointed to the door with my left hand, which had a knife in it.
He glared at me for a few seconds, then backed out the door and shut it.
I uncoiled into a standing position.
That would probably get me a complaint, but what was the alternative? Wilson had apologized for his officers when it wasn't their fault, and he had been respectful of my position. I had reciprocated by being cooperative, although I didn't have to. Conversely, if Babbino's agent had provided Vansise the promised security, this problem would never have happened. Now Babbino believes he's in charge, entitled to an explanation, and blames me for the problem—not his incompetence. I began to understand the problem Liang warned me about—some men's cave-man instinct toward women.
"Well, thank you, Ms. Vansise, for the coffee. And thank you agent Mathis for your time. It's been interesting." Wilson left grinning.
"That's it? You shoot someone and no charges, no investigation, no statements. And you can throw the FBI out of the house. I saw it, but I don't believe it." She finished her half–full glass of wine in one gulp. "A bodyguard would have had trouble with those two men with bats, and I doubt he could or would have stopped that man aiming his bat at my head. And if he shot someone, he'd be in jail. I was considering getting rid of you and hiring a bodyguard. Now I understand the difference. For the extra protection of a ZAP agent, I get extra inconvenience. My head's spinning."
"Too many grapes."
"You're driving me to drink."
"Can't. I don't have a license."
"Let me see that ID," she said, rising and walking over to me a bit unsteadily. I handed her the card. She stood there reading it and handed it back to me.
"I'm going to bed. I guess you’re staying?"
"Yep." I took her arm and walked her around the house, checking out windows and access into the house and potential exposure in each room. The house was an older three bedroom red-brick ranch-style with a bow window in the front. The property backed onto trees, brush, and eventually to a small river. Not good. I made sure all the windows were locked and more importantly covered with something heavy enough to avoid seeing shadows from the outside.
"Alright, the house is as safe as this house can be."
"Are you going home now?"
"Ms. Vansise, I'll be a constant itch until you decide you don't need or want me."
"Day and night? Seven days a week? No one can do that." She stared at me in horror.
"Yes, I'm trained to do just that. What time of the day, day of the week, or place do you think you're safe from the whack-jobs who want to hurt or kill you?"
"Are you coming to bed with me too?" She looked exhausted.
"No, I'll move a comfortable chair so I can see the door to your room as well as the front and rear doors. Please leave your door open."
"Good night, Kate. If someone breaks in, don't wake me." She staggered off down the hallway and into her room. I didn't hear a shower, so she must have gone straight to bed.
* * *
The next three weeks settled into a more-or-less normal routine, and I was pretty much ignored. She prepared breakfast at home, arrived at the office around 7:00 a.m., held a staff meeting at 9:00 a.m., worked through lunch, left work between four and seven, and ate dinner at one of several restaurants—once with the company lawyer, Harold Vanderhoff, and once with the company geologist, Charlie Creeden. They each made a good attempt at ignoring me. By now, Vansise forgot I was there most of the time, resigned to losing any argument with me concerning her safety.
I had spent two long years chasing a dream and wasn't disappointed. My assignments were everything I had hoped for—I got to watch VIPs up close and personal and to see behind the façades they wore or projected. Vansise was a good example. In public, she listened to people like she was interested, would consider their positions, and meant to follow up on their suggestions. She avoided confrontations and never got angry. In private, she was a no nonsense person who did her homework, had reviewed alternative views, understood the issues, and knew where she was taking the company. The work Vansise and the public Vansise were two separate and distinct persons. I liked the real Vansise, who bothered to understand the issues and was not above compromise.
At one of the morning staff meetings, Vanderhoff announced the company had acquired the natural gas rights in the north-eastern part of Montana. Afterward, Vansise met with Creeden and decided to visit the proposed Montana site at the end of the week.
* * *
That morning a limo arrived for Vansise and me at 7:30 a.m. and drove us to O'Hare, where Luxury Air Jets had an eight-passenger Citation waiting. There we were met by Creeden, Vanderhoff, and Gary Waller, who was responsible for the project. Waller was a stark comparison to Creeden, who was a heavyset mountain man with a full beard and mustache and Vanderhoff, who was tall, clean shaven, and distinguished looking with his gray-streaked brown hair. Waller was short and thin, had receding hair, and wore glasses. The only thing they all had in common was the brown-leather briefcase each carried.
I entered behind Vansise and after surveying the seating—eight leather seats with two sets of two seats facing each other—I directed her to the rear of the plane.
"Why?"
"So I can see everyone."
"Why? You know everyone here." She sounded frustrated.
I couldn't blame her and decided the protocol could be loosened without endangering her—unless the flight attendant was an assassin. I need to keep an eye on him, I mused and laughed mentally at the new Kate.
"True. I'll sit here. You can sit wherever you want." I smiled and nodded, conceding her point.
She snorted and sat down where I had indicated, facing me.
Creeden and Waller sat across the aisle from us.
Once we were in the air, a good-looking male flight attendant served us a light lunch and drinks. Vansise spent most of the time discussing the proposed schedule, potential production, and cost of the new site. The flight to Williston North Dakota was short as it was less than a thousand miles, and we arrived well before noon. A new-looking Land Rover and a Jeep Cherokee were waiting when we arrived. Since I insisted on sitting with Vansise, only one of the others could go with her. Creeden won, which didn't please Vanderhoff, who looked to have taken it personally.
We left Williston on Interstate two heading west and reached the Montana border in a half-hour. Five minutes later, the driver turned off onto a two-lane road designated as Route 1004.
"Ms. Vansise, our rights extend from the North Dakota and Montana border to Route 1004 to Route 2054, which is approximately five miles from Interstate 2. A total area of approximately twenty-five square miles," Creeden said, waving his arm in a semicircle to encompass the area.
"That's very mountainous terrain. We need roads, and that limits the available drilling sites," Vansise said, slowly scanning the area.
Greeden nodded agreement.
"True, however, I've been over it in a helicopter. I believe there are forty to fifty potential drilling sites. I've visited a dozen of those sites, and they could potentially contain huge gas fields. The best part is that the area isn't inhabited. An excellent place to try new technology and work out any problems before using it near populated areas."
We continued
down Route 1004 to an area a hundred yards short of the Route 2054 intersection, where Creeden had the driver stop, and we got out. Creeden walked slowly with Vansise, giving her a short dissertation on why this area potentially had large deposits of natural gas underground. I couldn't see Vanderhoff, who I assumed was off somewhere pissing. Waller stood only a few feet from the second vehicle talking to the driver, who was pointing to something to the east. Our driver had stayed in the vehicle and was talking on the phone, which struck me as strange since my cell indicated no coverage.
"Back to the vehicle," I said quietly so only Vansise and Creeden could hear.
"Why?" Vansise asked while Creeden stood frowning at me.
"Something's wrong."
I had no sooner said it than two Hummers approached: one from Route 2054, which stopped next to the Jeep Cherokee, and the other from Route 1004, which stopped next to the Land Rover. One man from each vehicle exited with an AK-looking weapon.
"When I start shooting, run for the Jeep and leave," I said, realizing they weren't there to rob us. Validating my thoughts, both drivers got out. The one near the Land Rover stood behind his vehicle with his rifle pointing in our direction; the other exited, turned away, and fired—I assumed at Vanderhoff, who I couldn't see.
"Now!" I shouted, firing at the man standing near the Jeep and hitting him in the chest. Then I turned and shot twice at the man behind the Hummer. He was just turning back when at least one bullet hit him in the throat or head and blood sprayed in a halo as he spun away.
Vansise and Creeden raced for the Jeep. The other two, near the Land Rover, froze with indecision.
As I turned toward them, they turned their guns toward me. I shot the one in front of the Hummer in the chest and dove sideways. The ground exploded where I had been standing. I got off two more rounds. I missed, but it caused the shooter to duck back behind the car.
SHIT! When I looked to see how Vansise was doing, I saw the man I had shot in the chest rising to one knee and reaching for his gun. I realized he was wearing a bulletproof vest—and probably the others were, too. I tried to ignore the rock and dirt blasting around me and took careful aim, shot, and rolled back in the direction I had been standing. Pain scorched my leg—a bullet or two in addition to exploding rock.
