Jason Frost - The Warlord

"So he wants to charge me with what?"

"Discharging a firearm within city limits. Creating public disturbance. Loitering in the men's room. Whatever he can make stick. So don't go mistaking California for Asia. I think I can handle things on this end, just don't make it rougher on yourself and me. Okay?"

Eric slowly stood up, stretched out his hand. "Thanks for everything, Luther."

Luther grasped Eric's hand with both of his and shook warmly. "I didn't think you'd listen to me, but I had to try."

"You're wrong, Luther. I'm not out to prove anything or get anyone. I'm just out to protect what I have. Whatever it takes."

"Just remember I haven't given up on this end yet. I know we'll get Fallows for something. Maybe even on this shoot-out today."

Eric nodded, started for the door. No point in arguing. Luther didn't know Fallows the way he did, didn't know what he was capable of.

"Give my love to Annie and the kids," Luther called after Eric.

Eric turned back to wave. Saw Luther opening his top desk drawer.

Heard an odd metallic click.

Like a cricket.

Somehow familiar.

Luther was peering into his desk, a puzzled look on his face. "Jesus Christ, what-?"

Then it all came back to Eric in a dizzying rush of data. Weight: 0.69 Ibs. Length: 4.5 inches. Diameter: 2.25 inches. Color: apple green with RGD-5 written on body. Explosive: 110 grams of TNT. Fuse: percussion with delay of 3.2 to 4.2 seconds. Type: RGD-5 anti-personnel hand grenade.

"Get out! Get out!" Eric screamed at Luther.

But Luther returned only a look of confusion, then a flash of understanding, and a sad look of acceptance.

The explosion tore the desk in half, spitting shards of wood like sharpened arrows through Luther's chest. The impact of the explosion twisted his head sideways, half ripping it off his shoulders. His body was lifted and tossed against the wall hard enough to imbed him momentarily in the plaster before his body plopped lifelessly to the floor. Thick, dark blood splotched the white plaster wall in a crazy buckshot pattern.

Eric was thrown against the opposite wall, his head cracking against a metal filing cabinet. He flopped to the floor, feeling his body being tugged this way and that, as if caught in a violent ocean tide. He remembered the last time he'd taken the kids body surfing. Thought he heard Annie calling his name, warning him not to swim out too far.

Then a dark, heavy wave washed over him and he went under.

"It's good practice," Annie said from the motel bathtub, "but it'll never replace sex."

Eric said nothing. He was stretched out next to the tub doing push-ups.

"How many's that?" she asked. "I've made a resolution not to count anything higher than my age."

"Eighty-two… eighty-three… eighty-four…"

"Hurry up, Eric," she said, trying to keep the concern out of her voice. Trying to keep it light, not let the fear in. "The water's getting cold."

"Run some hot," he grunted without stopping.

"I can't. I've got the temperature scientifically balanced for both our tastes. Hot enough so I can relax, yet cool enough so you don't burn your cute little buns. Besides, there're already more bubbles in here than there is water." She scooped up a palmful of fluffy white bubbles and blew them at him. They fluttered about him like thick snowflakes, but he didn't slow his pace.

"Almost done," he said, rhythmically snapping his body up and down.

Annie frowned, watched the thick, blue vein pulse across his temple before disappearing under the Band-Aid over the deep gash he'd received in the explosion. His face was red from the exertion, except for the scar. It remained white, oddly calm and untouched by the rest of his body, a line of icy water finally gathering into the strange frost pattern on his cheek. Like a frozen lake. Even after ten years she sometimes found the scar a little unnerving. As if it were a stranger, a distant relative uninvited into their home who wouldn't leave.

Lately she'd been feeling the same about Eric. Since the trial, and especially since the death of Luther Nichols, Eric had changed. Not drastically, not horribly. He was still a loving husband and a caring father. But he was also endlessly exercising, training, running. Every time he had a few extra minutes he'd drop to the floor and do a hundred push-ups. He was spending most afternoons lifting weights or sparring in a downtown gym. It was getting harder and harder to tease him out of his black moods.

"Fine. Here we are, a man and woman, alone in a motel, and not even any heavy breathing. Well, if you're not going to climb in here and molest me, I'll just eat until I get fat and there's no room in here for you." She reached over to the open box balanced on the toilet seat and grabbed another slice of Fast Eddie's deluxe pizza. It was already cold, the cheese having taken on a shiny, plastic look. But Annie took a big bite anyway. A slice of pepperoni dropped into the tub. She groped around under the bubbles for it, finally fishing it out between thumb and forefinger and tossing it over the side with a loud "Yeechh!" It flipped through the air and landed with a wet splat on Eric's back.

"Ooops," she giggled, then started laughing her loud whooping crane laugh, rocking so much that she dropped the rest of her slice of pizza into the tub.

Eric shook his head. "I see you've found a new way to reheat pizza."

"S-s-sorry," she laughed, her head thrown back in spasms of laughter.

Eric stood up, let the wet pepperoni roll off his back. Seconds before he'd been lost in a grim, violent vision of Dirk Fallows. Now he was smiling, chuckling. Annie had a way of doing that to him, reaching down to the bottom of some dark, cold ocean floor and yanking him to the surface where he could breathe fresh air. And laugh.

Quickly he stepped out of his underpants and into the tub, easing himself slowly into what felt to him like boiling water. To Annie it was probably lukewarm.

"Don't worry about finding that slice of pizza," he said. "I'm sitting on it." He reached into the water and pulled the soggy pizza out, tossing it across the bathroom into the sink.

"Good. That's your piece then. I get the last one."

"Like hell!"

They both lunged for the last piece of pizza, splashing water and suds over the side of the tub. Annie reached it first, but Eric wrapped his hand around hers and squeezed until it oozed between her fingers.

"Owww," she whined, but she was laughing too hard to be taken seriously.

They quickly washed each other off, scrubbing the pizza scraps from their bodies, lingering gently here and there.

"Und now for za last part of your training," she said, kicking a blob of bubbles into his face, then hopping out of the tub. She ran into the bedroom, trailing puddles of water and suds behind her.

"You've had it now, lady. It's all over but the begging."

"Begging?" she laughed from the other room. "For what?"

"For my essence. My manhood. My throbbing member."

Her laughs came in loud whoops. "Oh, you mean your love rod."

"My passion pole."

"Your sex pistol."

Eric rinsed the last of the pizza off his hand and sprang out of the tub and into the bedroom. Annie was lying naked on top of the bed, her wet skin glistening sensuously in the room's dim light. As always, Eric hesitated, let his eyes linger on her body, surprised and delighted to find her still so sexy after all these years. The breasts round and firm, yet yielding to the touch. The nipples, easily excited, were already hard and pointing. The slim waist sloping down from narrow ribs and sweeping up over sharp protruding hip bones. The stomach flat and smooth as an ocean beach, dark skinned from some tropical ancestor no one in the family remembered. The legs were long and shapely, hard with muscles and determination. Nothing on her body jiggled, it had all been trained into compact submission from years of ballet as a child, years of jazzercise and weight training as an adult. She'd followed Jane Fonda's Workout Book until she looked better than Jane Fonda.