When an old friend of Control's has trouble in his company, an intrepid agent is sent to infiltrate it. Trouble ensues.

Disclaimer. This amateur story is not intended to infringe on the copyrights held by Universal Television, Michael Sloan and Richard Lindheim or any other person or organization holding copyrights The Equalizer television series.

THE MAIL GUY
By
Isabell Klein


Aided and Abetted by Anna Sawitzky

Monday Afternoon
"Buddy! Come on in," Brad Gleason said expansively. "What's it been – ten, fifteen years?"

His old friend Buddy smiled and nodded. "Something like that," he said as he caught sight of a hastily concealed grin on the face of the man setting a stack of envelopes and magazines into a tray on the secretary's desk next to the door. Buddy vowed to have a little talk with the mailman before things, like nicknames, spread too far abroad.

Brad closed the door and invited Buddy to have a seat.

"Nobody's called me that since the last time I saw you," his guest admitted.

"Paris," Brad enthused. "I was at Cannes for the awards a couple of months ago and went up to Paris for a weekend. It's hard to believe it's been so many years. You ever get back?"

"Occasionally on business," Buddy answered. "Not enough to sightsee, though."

"For two guys who were going to set the artistic world ablaze, we certainly ended up in very different businesses." Brad motioned his guest to one of the chairs in front of the desk while he sat in the other.

Buddy grinned. "You sell toothpaste—"

"—and many other products as well," Brad interrupted, pointing the artwork gracing the walls.

Buddy duly admired the diversity of the products represented by Gleason's agency, then added, "And I'm a civil servant."

Brad laughed. "That's like saying Sinatra's a saloon singer."

Buddy shrugged. "That's all he ever claimed to be." Buddy leaned forward, his voice lowered as he said, "My man's working in your mail room. If someone's using your company as a transit point for drugs coming into the country, he'll find it."

"You're sure?"

"He's the best at what he does. Trust me, Brad," Buddy told his old college friend.
|~~~~~|

Monday Evening

The breeze off Lake Michigan cooled the audience at the lake front band shell. On stage, the orchestra was assembling amid a cacophony of sound as musicians warmed up their instruments.

Seated in the "reserved" section near the stage, Robert McCall again read the order of performance for the evening. Scott had two numbers – one in the first half and the last number in the second half of the program. The seats, McCall was pleased to see, were filling up quite well. When Scott told him of the free concert in Chicago with the local Grant Park Symphony Orchestra, McCall wondered just how many would attend. The area behind the temporarily fixed seating was a grassy field, now spread with blankets and lawn chairs as Chicagoans settled down to enjoy the evening of music nicely spiced with cheese and wine.

The sound of the first violinist's "A" and the answering of the orchestra's instruments was the signal for the audience, on the ground and in seats, to quiet and applaud the entrance of the conductor.

McCall enjoyed the first piece, a concerto by Beethoven, but wished it over. Scott was playing a new piece that McCall hadn't heard. As the applause for the concerto ended, a man slipped into the seat next to McCall and asked, "I haven't missed him, have I?"

"Control?" McCall said, surprised to see his old friend slumped in the chair next to him.

"Happened to be in town," Control lied, "and saw in the paper that Scott was playing tonight."

"I distinctly remember telling you that Scott would be playing in Chicago this week." McCall turned toward Control. "Would you care to try your entrance line again?"

Control ignored the jibe and, loosening his tie, muttered, "They could have had this indoors in the air conditioning."

"This is an outdoor series," McCall snapped. At Scott's introduction, McCall "shushed" Control, parental pride overcoming McCall's curiosity as to Control's presence.

Scott played Aaron Copeland's Rodeo, beautifully McCall thought. The audience agreed and the applause was loud for the young musician. It was a constant source of amazement to McCall that his son played with such intensity and beauty, coaxing delicate notes from the instrument he caressed with the bow.

As the applause died down and the orchestra left the stage, McCall stood to stretch muscles complaining from sitting on what was in reality a card table chair. "Want anything from the refreshment stand?" he asked his old friend.

"Sorry, Robert," Control said, "but duty calls."

"At this time of night?" McCall asked sarcastically.

"You forget, Robert, I do some of my best work at this time of night. Tell Scott I enjoyed his playing."

McCall watched Control melt into the crowd. Already there were long lines at the refreshment stands. The humid night was sapping everyone's strength. Despite the wait, McCall took his place in the queue, his desire for fluids overriding his reluctance to stand in the seemingly endless line.

Scott's performance at the end of the program was, if anything, more entrancing than his first solo and the appreciative audience flocked backstage to congratulate the young musician.

Robert watched the admirers flock around his son. The combination of Scott's youthful blond, good looks and unquestioned talent proved irresistible to women of all ages. Soon enough he would add his own words to those already ringing in the young man's ears.

Scott, by virtue of his greater height, spotted Robert at the edge of the mob. "Dad!"

McCall barely heard his son's voice over the noise.

"Dad!" Scott called again. "Over here by the coffee pot."

McCall eased his way through the group encircling Scott. The proud father smiled when he heard the words, "Brilliant" and "Breathtaking" applied to Scott's playing. Robert certainly couldn't disagree.

"I guess you liked the Copeland," Scott said, his father's praise echoing in his ears. "But you can gush as much as you want."

"I wasn't gushing" Robert protested, "I never gush."

Scott laughed. "Of course you weren't," he agreed with a grin. "Just telling the truth." Then Scott surprised his father by asking, "Where's Mickey?"

"Mickey?" Kostmayer was "on assignment" according to Control which McCall interpreted as "out of the country."

"He was leaning over the fence during the Copeland," Scott continued as he carefully placed his violin in its case. He looked over his shoulder at his father and added, "Later, he was standing right next to Control."

So that's what Control meant when he said he was in Chicago on business. But what kind of "business" could they possibly have here in the heart of the Midwest?

"Your godfather sat with me during the first half," McCall admitted, "but he left at the intermission. I didn't see him again."

Hearing the barest hint of anger in his father's voice, Scott turned. "Is Mickey on an assignment here?"

"I do not know," McCall admitted, "but I intend to find out."
|~~~~~|
Tuesday Noon

Mickey Kostmayer was eating lunch -- a brown-bagged, peanut butter and jelly sandwich brought from the transient hotel he called home. When Control had first approached him about this assignment, Kostmayer's initial reaction was "No way!" Domestic spying belonged to the Bureau, not the Company, but then Control said it wasn't Company business, and if Mickey accepted, he, Control, would consider it a personal favor. And, it wasn't that bad a deal. Chicago was a far cry from the mountains of Afghanistan or the jungles of South America.

Kostmayer sat in the floor assistant's space on the executive floor, eating his sandwich and surfing the net on a computer terminal. Idly, he toyed with the idea of sending an anonymous e-mail to Jacob Stock hinting at dire happenings in the Midwest, but as Mickey well knew, there was no such thing as an anonymous e-mail. He settled for a bass fishing site.

"Hey, Kostmayer!" Mickey swivelled toward the freight elevator door where Matt Harper from the central mail distribution center was unloading several large boxes. "See that these get delivered right away."

"Do I get to finish my lunch?" Mickey asked, taking another bite from the sandwich.

"That your lunch?" Matt sneered, his disgust plainly evident.

"I like peanut butter and jelly," Mickey answered, allowing defensiveness into his voice. "You know how it is when you start a new job – money's tight."

"So you've said before. I guess you can finish the sandwich first." Matt got back in the freight elevator. He let the door begin to close, before pushing it back open and saying, "Maybe I can help. When you get off?"

"5:30."

"Meet me on the loading dock."

This time Matt let the door slide closed. Mickey turned back to the computer terminal and closed out of the site. He finished the sandwich and put the boxes into his mail cart. He'd gotten a nibble, now to set the hook.

Mickey took the boxes to Marcus Johnston's office, senior executive and all around obnoxious person. Mickey dearly wished he could meet Johnston in a dark alley and beat the living tar out of him. Nothing short of that would have any effect on the pompous executive. Perhaps Control would sanction . . . nah; Johnston wasn't a threat to national security, just to national pride.

"Waiting for a tip?" Johnston asked sarcastically without bothering to look up from the boxes now sitting on his desk.

Mickey shrugged and left, pushing the mail cart rather like a supermarket shopper. His next stop was Johnston's secretary, Daria, another candidate for sanction. She was beautiful and haughty – a combination destined to alienate lesser beings.

Mickey left the mail packet in the "inbox" and emptied the contents of the "outbox" into the cart and pushed on.

Later that afternoon, Mickey waited impatiently for Daria to finish making out the overnight mail form. He had been about to take the last of the outgoing mail to the distribution center when she called out, "Mail boy." Mickey swore under his breath. 'Mail Boy' was not a name he accepted with equanimity. He wondered what she would say if he answered, "Yes, Typist!"

He was anxious to leave. He still had to drop off the mail at the first floor distribution center and meet Matt on the loading dock. With luck, this was the contact he was waiting for. The sooner he had the information, the sooner he could stop pushing around mail carts and go home to New York.

Daria handed over the package and the overnight form. "You'll see that this goes out tonight," she demanded as if he would personally put it on the plane.

Mickey nodded. He'd put it on the table with the rest of the overnight packages.

"I can't impress upon you enough," Daria continued, "that this has to be in South America tomorrow. Mr. Johnston will be very angry if it doesn't reach our office there tomorrow."

Mickey just nodded. He doubted Mr. Johnston's ire would be any worse than Control's or McCall's – two individuals who had found it necessary in the past to throw "ire" in Mickey's direction.

Mickey took the package from Daria's hand and tossed it into the cart. As he pushed away, Daria called out, "It will get there tomorrow, won't it?"

Mickey kept walking, his curiosity about the contents of the package growing with each venomous sound bite dripping from Daria's mouth.

Kostmayer pushed the cart into the empty elevator car. As it started its downward trip, Mickey pushed the emergency stop. It was the work of several seconds to ease open the flap on the envelope and take a quick look at the contents. The papers seemed to be routine agency business until Mickey found the page in the middle of the stack which contained nothing more than a series of numbers. Mickey memorized the numbers, put the papers back in the package, sealed the envelope and flipped off the emergency stop. The elevator once again began its descent towards the mail room.

He'd have Control get the numbers checked out. If his suspicions were right, what he had was an off shore bank account number. The obvious question was who put it there – Daria, Johnston, or someone else taking advantage of the handy shipment to South America. That, too, Control would have to find out.
|~~~~~|
Kostmayer was late to the meeting on the loading dock. Mickey figured that this was his one shot to get in with the gang and he'd better make it good. Waiting for the package had delayed his last pick-up.

Mickey's new friends took him to a bar on the lower level of Wacker Drive that catered to an eclectic clientele from assorted city sanitation department workers to printers from the city's nearby newspaper offices. Rounds of beer accompanied a talk session with Mickey doing most of the talking, answering questions about his past. The story he gave them was mostly true. Houston. New York. Navy SEALs. Government job. He deliberately left out the part about Leavenworth for two reasons. He was always reluctant to talk about that time in his life and he wanted to see just how good their intelligence was. Leavenworth was part of his false biography – if they knew where to look.

They did.

"You forgot something," Matt said casually. "Kansas, wasn't it?"

"I was framed!" Mickey blurted out, allowing a tinge of anger to color his voice, "And the brass knew it!"

So they did have a source who could tap into computer files and find out things they weren't supposed to know. Well, Mickey thought, that's not hard to do and that's what the record was there for – to be hacked into.

"Why didn't you tell us about it?" Matt challenged.

"They let me out with a pardon and a consolation prize . . . a desk job at Agriculture. I took it as long as I could and got out."

Matt laughed. "Lasted what was it . . . three and a half weeks?"

"So?" This time it was Mickey doing the challenging.

Matt shrugged. "So nothing. I take it you don't have much love for the government."

"Would you?" Mickey asked harshly. "They took part of my life away from me, said, 'Sorry--we made a mistake and here's a stinking job to make up for it.'" He took a swig of beer, letting the slightly bitter liquid trickle down his throat and waited for whatever came next.

"You still want to earn some money – maybe not strictly legal money and just maybe get some of your own back?"

"The government doesn't obey the law, why should I? Who do I have to kill?"

"Nothing like that," Matt assured him. "Just deliver a few packages to people in the building; just doing your job."

"That's it?" Mickey asked.

"Special packages for special people and extra money for you. No sweat; no problems," Matt assured him. "Of course, we'll have to check you out first. If you make the grade, you're in."

"And if I don't?" Mickey asked

"In that case, you disappear and we find someone else."

Join or else. Mickey took another swig of the beer and then held up the bottle. "No need to go to extremes," he said easily. "Just let me know when I start."

The others raised their bottles to touch Mickey's. The hook was set. Now all Mickey needed was proof so Control could reel them in.
|~~~~~|

The house wasn't visible from the road. Screened by a small forest of trees, the home perched on a bluff above the Lake Michigan shore. Only the street number, discreetly displayed on a security fence, identified the residence to cars traveling Green Bay Road in the suburban Chicago area known to locals as "No Man's Land."

McCall gave his name to the guard at the gate and drove the rental car slowly along the curving, tree-lined, driveway.

"There's the house," Scott said unnecessarily as his father parked the car behind other cars lining the drive. "I wonder what it's like to live like this."

"Like what, Scott?" McCall asked.

"Like this – private estate with a water view. Lots of trees. Private security system."

"I'm willing to wager you already have a better security system," his father mocked gently. "Well, are we going in or are we just going to sit here admiring the house?"

Scott sighed audibly. "I hate these get-togethers," he complained. "My jaw gets tired of smiling and everyone always asks the same questions. I much prefer your colleagues to mine."

At that, his father's eyebrows arched above his glass frames. "My colleagues have a tendency to shoot their competition."

"I know," Scott said, "I've occasionally considered doing the same." Scott sighed again. "I suppose we have to go in sometime."

"You suppose correctly. You'll have to get used to these 'get-togethers'," McCall said. "Meeting the 'money men' is part of the job. Just be your usual charming self."

"Should have brought Mickey's Uzi," Scott said in a credible deadpan voice, "and scared the money out of them! Save a lot of time and trouble."

"Scott!"

Scott laughed and McCall allowed himself a small smile. His virtuoso son spent far too much time with the more dangerous of the government's employees, a circumstance for which his father took the blame.

McCall ended the discussion by getting out of the car and Scott had no choice but to follow.

In the gathering dusk, the door stood open to welcome the guests. Robert moved to the side to allow Scott to enter the house before him. "Mr. Gleason?" Scott asked the man who welcomed them.

"Guilty," Brad Gleason acknowledged, holding out his hand to Scott. "And you're Scott McCall who so mesmerized us with his playing last night."

Robert noted his son's embarrassment. To cover his unease, Scott said, "This is my father Robert McCall."

The two older men shook hands.

"You have a remarkably gifted son," Gleason told the elder McCall.

Robert beamed his pleasure, nodding his agreement. "The sound of Scott's playing lingers most pleasurably in the mind and touches the heart, but I admit to being prejudiced on the subject."

"Come and meet my wife." He held out his hand to an attractive woman hovering near the entry into the living room. "Louise, this is Scott McCall and his father Robert."

Louise Gleason took first Scott's hand, then Robert's in a firm grip. "Welcome to our home. We're so glad you could come. Scott's playing is pure joy to hear."

"That it is," Robert agreed, "and, thank you, for allowing me to tag along."

"If we had known you were in town, you would have had an engraved invitation," Louise smiled. "Not that there were any invitations. We threw this together by word of mouth after the performance last night."

Two gushing females descended on Scott to shower him with praise and capture him for themselves. Robert smiled at the look of dismay that Scott quickly hid from his fans.

"Oh, Scott, your playing is sooo wonderful…" were the last words Robert heard as the women dragged Scott over to meet their friends.

"Poor Scott," Louise sighed as she watched the threesome blend into the larger group. "I had hoped to warn him about Monica. She does get over-enthusiastic."

"Over-enthusiastic," her husband commented dryly, "is hardly the phrase I'd use."

The arrival of more guests was Robert's signal to "mix" and he drifted away, ending up at the buffet spread out on the dining room table. McCall was considering the hors d'oeuvres when a pseudo-Russian voice hissed, "Try the crispy ones, Igor!"

"Control," Robert hissed back. "Just what are you doing here?"

Before there was an answer, Gleason was at Robert's side saying, "I'd like you to meet an old friend of mine. Bud--this is Scott McCall's father, Robert. Scott's the incredible young violinist I heard last night."

Control smiled. "Robert and I are old friends," he said as McCall mouthed "Bud?" Control frowned at Robert before telling his host, "I've known Scott all his life."

Brad looked from one to the other, surprised. "You should have said something," Gleason chided his old friend.

"I didn't know Robert was in town," Control lied smoothly, "until last night at the concert." Control turned to McCall. "Brad and I were in college together," he explained.

Brad laughed self deprecatingly. "In those days we dreamed of following in the steps of the masters. Things turned out a bit differently, though."

"You were following the masters," Control corrected. "I studied history."

"You were more interested in French anatomy than art history, if I remember correctly," Brad replied.

Control laughed. "You did a fair amount of anatomy study, also."

"It was a required course and they were models."

Intrigued, Robert asked, "What do you do, Brad?" He glanced over at Control, who was intently studying the tips of his shoes.

"I'm in advertising and you?"

"Oh, I'm retired these days," Robert said evasively. "Gives me more time to follow Scott from concert to concert. A 'groupie' I believe the current term is."

Control looked up, then. "Groupie?" he laughed. "Robert, I never suspected you even knew the term."

"And then there is Scott's other groupie," McCall observed, "and his presence in Chicago."

Brad looked from Control to Robert and back again. "Perhaps it's not too late to invite him," Gleason offered.

"He had another engagement," Control said smoothly.

One didn't become CEO of a large company in any field by being stupid and Brad quickly made the connection. Robert felt Brad's intense gaze, looking for the first time beneath the genteel exterior to the dangerous man below.

Fortunately from Robert's perspective, Louise picked that moment to summon her husband back to his guests.

"Now, old friend," McCall said pleasantly, "suppose you tell me what you and Mickey are really doing in Chicago."

"Remember Vienna, Robert?" Control said easily.

"Vienna? What's Vienna got to do with this?"

"How quickly we forget," Control chided. "Think, Robert. Vienna. Spring. Strauss waltzes. Tails in the Vienna Woods."

"Isn't that 'Tales of the Vienna Woods'?" McCall said absently as he tried to fathom just what Control was getting at.

"In this case it was tails in the woods," Control corrected.

"Oh!" McCall said disgustedly. "In other words, it's none of my business just like it was then."

"Correct." Control picked up a plate and examined the food spread before them. "The cheesy things look good," he commented as his eyes quickly scanned the offerings.

"And you're not going to tell me," McCall pressed.

"That's right, old son, I'm not. Relax. Enjoy the evening. Scott plays again tomorrow, doesn't he?"
|~~~~~|

Wednesday Morning

Mickey was whistling softly as he pushed the mail cart off the elevator. It stalled briefly as the wheels locked against the bottom of the doorframe. The whistling stopped as Mickey manhandled the heavily laden cart over the "bump" and resumed as he pushed it forward towards the receptionist.

He fished his key card out of a pocket and, winking at the pretty lady at the desk, entered the inner sanctum of the executive offices.

Tucked away in the floor assistant room, Mickey set about sorting the mail. What the floor lacked in numbers of occupants it made up for in the amount of mail sent to each person. Mickey figured he was about half way through when he heard a familiar voice in the hallway.

What was the kid doing here? Mickey could only hope that Scott would be long gone before he started his rounds. The kid was smart, but sometimes blurted out the first thing that came to his mind. Hopefully, Scott would remember who and what Mickey was and assume correctly that this was not the time or the place to renew acquaintances.


Mickey stayed put until Scott's voice moved down the corridor. With any luck, they wouldn't run into each other. Luck, however, was in a fickle mood this day. Mickey pushed his mail cart around a corner and almost ran over the young musician and the company CEO.

Hastily backpedaling, Mickey swung the cart around, hoping to retreat before Scott recognized the "mail guy." As the CEO turned back to his now overflowing cola drink, Scott grinned cheekily in Mickey's direction. With a shake of his head, Mickey backed away and out of the area, cursing fate that had brought Scott to this floor of this building at this time on this day.

It was, Mickey mused, extremely difficult to avoid the McCalls, father and son, no matter where he was in the world.
|~~~~~|

Scott watched the young agent push the cart down the hall.

". . . Know him?" Brad Gleason was asking as they returned to his office.

Scott mentally shook his head. "I'm sorry," he apologized, "what did you ask?"

Gleason laughed. "You, my young friend, were off somewhere with the muses. I asked if you knew our floor assistant."

"The mail guy?" Scott guessed.

Gleason nodded. "They do a little more than just deliver the mail."

"I think I know him from New York. I play with a rock group there." As Gleason's eyes widened at the idea of a violin in a rock band, Scott added, "I play guitar. It's a modified rock group."

Gleason stopped at his secretary's desk. "When the floor assistant comes by, have him stop in my office."

Mickey arrived about ten minutes later and Scott trotted out the rock band story. "I have a concert tonight, but how about we get together for a sandwich at that pub around the corner?"

Mickey agreed, almost too quickly Scott thought. "You will be there, won't you?" he asked.

Kostmayer nodded. "I don't always get off on time, so if I'm late and you have to leave, I'll understand."

Scott frowned, seeing in Mickey's answer an excuse not to show up at all.

"A very introspective young man," Gleason observed as Mickey withdrew.

"Introspective?" Scott repeated. "I never quite thought of him that way, but I think you may be right." Scott directed the conversation back to the question of classical music and commercials. "Now, I think that bridge of Tchaikovsky's might be just what you need…"
|~~~~~|

"Hey, Kostmayer! Coming with us for a drink?" Matt yelled across the busy mail room. Stacks of outgoing mail filled trays and bags. A long table held the overnight documents awaiting routing forms.

"Maybe later," Mickey answered. "I'm supposed to meet a friend from back east."

Kostmayer felt Matt's eyes boring into him. "Ditch the friend if you want to make some money."

"Whatever you say," Mickey agreed. "Let me leave a message for him."

Later that evening, Matt leaned across the saloon table and asked, "You're sure you want part of this? You can still pull out, but once you're in, you're in, if you get my meaning."

Mickey got the meaning all too clearly. For a fleeting moment, he almost felt sorry for these guys, amateurs all, who didn't know what or who they were up against. Mickey waited a few seconds before nodding. It wouldn't do to appear to be too eager.

"OK." Matt leaned closer. "We've got a shipment coming in. You'll get special packages in your cart to deliver only to the persons' addressed. You can't leave them in the inboxes. Understand?"

"Yeah. Deliver only to the guys addressed."

The others laughed at Mickey's words.

"What did I say that was so funny?" he asked, honestly confused by the reaction.

"Who said we were delivering only to guys?" Matt asked. "Everybody likes a little blow from time to time."

Kostmayer nodded. "When do I make the run?"

"Just make your regular mail deliveries. The packages will have a red X on them. Should be sometime tomorrow or maybe Friday. We never know exactly when it's coming, just the week it's due."

Again, Kostmayer nodded. "And, when do I get paid?"

"After we check that the deliveries were made as scheduled."

"How do you know I won't make off with the stuff and sell it myself?"

"Since you won't know if the packages contain the real thing or if they're dummy shipments, you won't take the chance of ending up with a handful of Styrofoam popcorn."

"But I get paid just the same?" Mickey asked, making it clear that the money was all he was really interested in.

"Yeah, you get paid just the same." Matt leaned closer, his face scant inches from Mickey's. "And, if you even think about double-crossing us, you'll wish you hadn't. You wouldn't want anything unpleasant to happen to that musician friend of yours, would you? McCall's his name, isn't it? Scott McCall?"

Mickey looked suitably afraid. "No," he stammered. And if anything happens to him, you're gonna find out just how unpleasant life can get!

The group remained in the bar, talking sports and drinking beer, with Mickey a reluctant participant. After about an hour, the group began to break up and Mickey felt free to leave.

He spotted the tail immediately, actually two tails, neither one a pro. Mickey made no attempt to lose the shadows and took them on a little shopping trip. He hoped they would think he was anticipating his first drug-related payday as he stocked up on beer and pretzels and then went to a local pizzeria for dinner. On the way home, he stopped at an all-night newspaper stand for a couple of fishing magazines, his faithful companions in tow.

Mickey didn't even bother to check if he had an all-night chaperone. He watched a little television with the sound turned up higher than he preferred and drank a little more beer. In time, he left the television on and went into the bathroom. With the shower running, he called Control to report his progress. He left a message and waited for the return call.

He was no closer to the brains behind the drug distribution network, but he was to be trusted with delivery. Once he had made a delivery, the gang would think they owned him. Then, Mickey told himself, he would begin to push for the name of the boss.

When Control called back, Mickey said, "I make my first delivery sometime this week. It could be the drugs or it could be a red herring. They warned me that if I tried to steal the drugs and sell them Scott would be in danger."

"How the hell do they know about Scott?" Control demanded.

"Two ways. Someone could have seen us together at work today. He was meeting with Gleason when I was making my rounds. We were supposed to meet later, but I got invited to drink with other side and canceled on Scott . . . someone could have been listening to the phone call. You want me to tell Robert or will you?"

"I'll take care of that. Any clue about the boss?"

"Only that it could be someone on the executive floor if they saw Scott and me together. It wouldn't take much to identify Scott."

"Push to get the name of the boss," Control ordered. "We've got to get this wound up. I need you here."

"That's going to stir things up. I was followed tonight as it was."

"You need back-up?" Control asked.

"That would be nice," Mickey answered sarcastically. "Never thought you'd ask."

"All right. Leave things to me. Tell them you want to know who you're working for since you're taking all the chances delivering the goods."

"And you'll tell McCall?"

"I said I would, didn't I?" Control said rather testily. "Is that all?"

Mickey grunted the affirmative.

"Keep in touch!"
|~~~~~|
Control put down the phone and considered not making the promised phone call to McCall. Robert would not be pleased to have Scott involved in this little extracurricular mission Kostmayer was on. But if Robert found out, which Robert was certain to do, the fireworks aimed at his own graying head would be even more explosive. Besides, he was no more willing to risk harm to Scott than Robert was.

Robert wasn't back from Scott's concert yet. Control left a message. Kostmayer wanted back-up. Kostmayer would get back-up. Very experienced back-up!
|~~~~~|
Thursday Morning

Kostmayer carefully maneuvered his mail cart into the elevator. As the front wheels crossed between the car and the floor, the cart shook slightly and the top most package teetered. Mickey made a fast grab for the package before it fell and knocked other packages off the cart. Mickey had never had so many packages to deliver. The whole mail room was filled with them.

"It's up front," Matt Harper told him.

"Where up front?" Mickey countered, making no sense of the explanation.

"Not where. What. See where the packages come from? TV stations, that's where. Up front is when they first sell commercial time for the new season. And since they want the buyers to buy time on their stations, they send gifts."

This brought loud laughter from the staff still busy sorting through filled carts.

"Bribes, huh?" Mickey asked.

"You might call'em that," Matt admitted, "then again you might call them something else if you looked closely enough."

They appeared to be promotional material – glass snow globes depicting a winter ski scene.

"They'll never fit in the cart," Mickey complained. "I'll have to work overtime to deliver all this."

Matt grinned. "And you'll make a little extra for doing it."

Later, as Kostmayer lifted one of the boxes from the cart and onto the addressee's desk, he wondered if this was the carton containing the drugs. He was careful not to show too much interest in the contents.

His route through the executive floor took him to Gleason's office next. He wondered if the man knew just who his pal, Buddy, was.

Gleason's secretary was an older woman who reminded him of Mildred, Control's secretary. Mildred was one of the special people who made working in the Company offices almost tolerable. Mickey smiled as he put the package on the desk. "Christmas comes early around here, doesn't it?" he said as he took the remainder of Gleason's mail from the cart.

"Up front always brings out the generosity of the stations," Sarah agreed, "but you wait until it is Christmas time, then the packages spill out of the mail room into the corridors. "

"From the sound of it, I'll have to lift some weights if I'm to survive!"

They both laughed and Mickey half-saluted as he pushed the cart toward the next secretarial station.

"About time," the imperious Daria said as she virtually grabbed the marked package from Mickey's hand and got up from her desk. Mickey fiddled with the mail in the cart as he watched Daria walk to Johnston's door and say loudly, "The package is here!"

Either the woman was totally stupid, Mickey thought, or totally smart. Calling attention to that particular package could be an attempt to smoke him out. But despite the number of snow globes, they could not contain enough narcotics to be worth any kind of significant money. Mickey moved on to the next mail stop, wondering just what had really happened back there – a test of his reliability or the bad guys "setting their hooks" into him. If some of the globes did contain something other than artificial snow, he would be trapped, or so they might think.

Mickey whistled tunelessly as he waited for the elevator. He knew the method of delivery. All he needed was the name of the boss. Control hadn't helped much. Still no word on that number sequence, not that Control always let his agents in on the significance of information discovered.

The elevator stopped and Mickey exited on the service floor, pushing his now empty cart into the mail center.
|~~~~~|
Thursday, Early Evening

Scott arrived at Gleason's office as the staff left for the day. He had scored the selected music segment that Gleason wanted for a commercial campaign and planned to drop off the sheet music. Scott was looking forward to getting home. He'd been on the road most of the summer and needed some down time to recharge his creative batteries and spend a little recreational time with Jenny.

"Scott!" Brad Gleason greeted his visitor heartily from his office door. "I take it you've got something for me?"

Gleason waved Scott into his office. "I want our creative director to sit in on this."

As Scott seated himself, Gleason crossed the reception area to Amanda Burger's office. Finding neither Amanda nor her secretary, he stopped at Marcus
Johnston's office.

"Do you know where Sarah. . ." The words died in Gleason's throat.

Johnston was calmly sitting at his desk, about to snort a line of cocaine through a straw.

Gleason walked into the office to lean over the desk, his face mere inches from that of the surprised executive. Gleason didn't mince words. "You're through. Get
out of my agency, Johnston."

"You can't do that!" Johnston protested. "Not after all these years."

"You know the rules. No dealing. No using."

Gleason turned to leave but stopped when Johnston said, "Stop right there. This gun is loaded and I know how to use it."

"That is extremely bad dialogue and not very convincing," Gleason said angrily as he turned around to face the revolver Johnston leveled in his direction. "Put that thing down," Gleason said, "before you hurt someone."

"I wouldn't be surprised if someone got hurt, but it's not necessary. You move, you get hurt, it's that easy."

While he spoke, Johnston fingered the telephone number pad, and then picked up the handset.

"Get up to Gleason's office and bring the others," Johnston ordered.

He hung up the receiver and stood, moving carefully around the desk. "Now, we go to your office and wait for my friends."

"And then?"

"And then, we'll see."

|~~~~~|
Mickey slipped the papers into the overnight envelope and taped it closed. He had gotten quite good at it and let everyone within hearing distance know that he appreciated the extra money for the overtime pay. While the crew wrapped, they idly discussed baseball. Mickey felt right at home. He was the only out-of-towner in the group. The other guys at the counter had equally divided loyalties-- two Cub fans and two Sox fans.

A tap on the shoulder and Mickey flinched slightly, controlling the impulse to respond. "Come on, Kostmayer," Matt said, "we gotta go pick up a package."

Mickey swivelled on his stool. "Now?" he asked. "I'm boxing up the overnights."

"Now!" Matt ordered.

The other three members of Matt's gang joined them at the freight elevator. "You three . . . wait at the loading dock and don't take any coffee breaks on the way.
Kostmayer, you're with me. And if you ever question my orders again," Matt hissed in Mickey's ear, "you'll regret it."

Mickey nodded pretending a submissiveness alien to his nature. What Matt needed was a lesson in humility that Mickey was more than willing to teach. Soon,
the young agent promised himself, soon.

The executive floor reception area was deserted when they arrived.

Matt led the way to Gleason's office. Mickey trailed behind, all his senses on high alert. He hoped all the pieces to the puzzle were falling into place. He also hoped nobody got hurt in the process. What was waiting in Gleason's office, however, ratcheted up the ante. Scott sat on the floor, his hands tied behind him. Next to him was Gleason, a prisoner in his own office.

"Well, well," Matt gloated at the prisoners, "what do we have here, all trussed up like chickens on a spit?" He turned to Johnston. "What're we gonna do with them?"

"We're all going to go for a little boat ride," Johnston said quietly, "only some of us aren't going to come back. A tragic accident. I'm sure the company will observe a day of mourning for you, Brad. It's the least we can do."

Matt thought he had a better idea. "Why not just split their heads open and drop them on Lower Wacker? The cops assume they were mugging victims. Less work that way."

Johnston appeared to think over the suggestion, but then shook his head. "I don't want any bodies. We just dump them overboard sufficiently weighted down and let the lake take care of them."

"You'll never get away with it," Gleason responded in classic movie dialogue.

Johnston laughed. "Who's going to stop me?"

Johnston jerked his head toward the prisoners. "You, mail guy, get them on their feet. Matt, check outside. We don't want to run into any curious staff, now do
we?"

Matt grabbed Mickey's elbow and jerked him aside. "It's either you or the kid. One more body more or less won't make any difference. You understand?"

Mickey nodded and Matt left the office.

Kostmayer pulled Gleason's arm, helping him to awkwardly rise. He turned to Scott and did the same, surreptitiously checking the ropes around Scott's wrists.
He thought he was able to loosen one of the knots and hoped Scott could do the rest. Johnston jerked the gun toward the reception area and Mickey prodded his prisoners to the door, keeping himself between Scott and the gun. He would do whatever was necessary to protect Scott from the man giving the orders.

Hell, if anything happened to Scott, he might as well eat his own gun before McCall, with Control holding his old friend's coat, did the job himself.

Harper led the small parade to the elevator, passing behind the oversized, curved reception desk. Gleason was next and then Scott.

As Harper moved beyond the desk, Mickey pushed Scott hard into Gleason who then fell on Harper. Mickey whirled on Johnston, a swift kick aimed at the gun. The weapon went flying out of Johnston's numbed fingers. Mickey kicked the gun away. Johnston recovered quickly only to face the deadly Mr. Kostmayer.

Johnston made the mistake of attacking, rather than running. Mickey used Johnston's own momentum to flip the man onto the floor. Stunned, Johnston stayed where he fell.

A slight noise behind him alerted Mickey to Harper's attack. The agent whirled to meet his attacker. Harper was bigger and burlier than Johnston. He also had the street smarts not to rush Kostmayer. Harper deftly flipped a knife from one hand to the other, his mouth twisted in a grin as Mickey's eyes followed the knife's trajectory.

"Think you can take me, little man?" Harper gloated.

Mickey ignored the jibe. "I kill people for a living, Harper," he said coldly, eyes following each toss of the knife. "Think that knife is going to stop me? Think again."

Harper sneered. "I got this," he said and tossed the knife into his other hand. "You ain't got nothing."

Harper lunged, the knife aimed at Mickey's gut.

Mickey grabbed Harper's wrist with his hands, forcing the arm up and back. Harper screamed as the wrist cracked and the knife fell to the floor.

Mickey pushed Harper to the floor, then stooped and grabbed the knife. Scott's head appeared from under the desk. Mickey pulled him to his feet and cut the ropes off Scott's hands then handed Scott the knife. "Cut Gleason loose," he ordered. He spotted the gun across the room and retrieved it.

Johnston stirred, only now beginning to take in what had happened. Harper sat on the floor, holding his rapidly swelling hand.

Mickey handed the gun to Scott. "Remember what I taught you?"

"Yeah," Scott grinned. "The bullets come out the pointy end."

"Right. Keep an eye on these two," Mickey ordered. He turned to Gleason. "Get on the phone to security. Get the cops up here," he said and headed toward
the elevators.

"Where are you going?" Scott demanded.

"To get the others," Mickey replied.
|~~~~~|
Scott held the gun on Mickey's groaning victims until security arrived.

"You called the police?" Gleason asked.

"Yes, sir," the first guard said. He pointed toward Johnston and Harper. "You do that, sir?" he asked with a hint of awe in his voice.

Gleason shook his head. "No," he answered.

"Him?" the guard asked jerking his head toward Scott.

"Not him, either."

The guard let out his breath. "Who did?"

It was Scott who answered. "He went to get the others. I think they're at the loading dock."

The guard turned toward his companion. "Go down and bring the police up. Have them check out the loading dock, too. Might be trouble down there."

The guard turned back to Scott. "Want to give me the gun, kid?" he asked.

"No," Scott said. "I'll keep it until the police come."

The guard turned toward Gleason. "That all right with you, sir?" he asked.

"Yes, of course," Gleason replied.

"Brad," Scott said. "Can you call your friend and my Dad? Let them know what's happened?"

Gleason nodded and then realized Scott couldn't see the nod. "Sure. Bud left me a number he said would always reach him."
|~~~~~|

The loading dock was empty when Mickey arrived. Harper's friends were nowhere around. Either they've cut and run, Mickey thought, or they've … gone on a coffee break.

Mickey jumped over the loading dock platform and headed for the saloon the gang had taken him to. If the other three weren't there, the cops would have to track them down.

As expected, the three were hoisting beers at the bar.

"Harper wants you," Mickey told them. "He's going to be pissed you weren't on the loading dock. Come on." He started for the door, glancing at the mirror over the bar to be certain they were coming.

All three took the time to drain their bottles before following.

Mickey led the way back toward the loading dock in the next block. About halfway there, where the light was poorest, Mickey fell slightly behind the others.

With characteristic quickness, he karate chopped first one man, then a second. Both fell heavily to the sidewalk. The third man whirled on Mickey. Cautiously, they circled each other, looking for an opening.

Just as Mickey was landing a blow to the man's mid section, a police car screeched to a stop next to them.

The cops jumped out, guns drawn. "Freeze!" the policeman closest to Mickey shouted.

"Help!" cried Mickey's opponent. "He's a drug dealer and he's going to kill me!"

"Right!" Mickey said sarcastically, but did as ordered.

"Both of you--against the wall. Spread 'em!"

Mickey put his hands against a side wall, feet spread. He felt someone's hands efficiently frisking him. One hand was pulled down and behind. Mickey felt the cold steel of a handcuff encircling his wrist. His other arm joined the first. He stood next to the opposition, hands cuffed behind him, and wondered what Control was going to say about this. He vowed this was absolutely the last time he'd volunteer for a private mission. It just wasn't safe!
|~~~~~|

There was still no sign of Mickey when Robert and Control arrived.

"He went down to the loading dock," Scott explained. "The other gang members were supposed to be down there, but when the cops went down there, no one was around."

Pulling an identification card from his wallet, Control turned on the power of some government office or other on the detective in charge. "One of my people is missing," Control explained. "He went down to the loading dock to round up the rest of the drug smugglers."

Suitably impressed with the bogus identity, the detective assured Control that everything would be done to locate the missing man. "I'll get my people right on it. We'll find your man."

Not unless he wants you to, Control told himself as he joined the McCalls and Gleason in the latter's office.

"The police are checking," Control said as he picked up the nearest telephone. "I plan to do a little checking of my own." He dialed a number and talked softly into the mouthpiece.

"I can't believe Johnston would do something like this," Gleason said when Control finished. "It just doesn't make sense. He's made a fortune in this business."

Control smiled ruefully at his friend. "Brad, it never does." He looked around the office. "Anything to drink around here?"

"I think there's some of our client's beer in the refrigerator in the kitchen." He nodded toward a second door in the office. "Through there."

Scott went to the kitchen and returned with four cans of beer. He put them on the desk, went back to the kitchen, and returned with an armload of snacks. "Mickey must have been right at home here," he declared brightly.

Gleason eyed his three guests curiously. "You're not worried about him, are you?"

"No," three voices answered at the same time.

"He'll turn up," Control assured his friend. "Always does."
|~~~~~|

The Chicago jail was better than others Mickey visited over a lifetime of tempting fate in some of the more unsavory of the world's countries.

Mickey was cooling his heels in a holding cell. His cellmates were a motley group . . . an icy stare from Mickey promptly dissuaded one inmate with designs on his body.

Arriving and departing prisoners made it impossible to get more than a few minutes sleep at a time. But, the young agent had spent far more uncomfortable nights. He was dry, warm, and no one was hurting him.

Across the hall, in a second cell were the three guys from the loading dock. Two were definitely the worse for their war with Mickey. Every once in a while, Mickey locked eyes with one of them and grinned.

He hadn't used his one local phone call yet. The problem was that he didn't have anyone to call locally. The cops hadn't believed his "I work for the government" routine. Eventually, they would check his fingerprints, Langley would be alerted, and the wheels of justice would begin their slow rotation.

The cell door clanged open and the cops thrust a rather evil looking young man among them. Mickey vowed again he'd never volunteer for a private job for Control.
|~~~~~|

It wasn't until the next morning that Control finally got word of the missing agent.

"He's been arrested," Control said putting down the phone. "The cops checked his fingerprints and flags went up everywhere."

Robert snorted. "Did they say where he's being held?"

"At police headquarters. It would serve him right if I just let him rot there."

Scott protested. "But he saved our lives!"

Gleason smiled. "He did do that, Bud. You can't leave him there."

Scott stared at Control. "Bud? Your name's Bud?"

Control shrugged it off. "A college nick name."

"You know, Scott," his father remarked, "if you really want to know Control's name, you might look at your baptismal certificate."

"How do you know I didn't use an alias," Control suggested.

"Because I'm the one that wrote your name on the form and you weren't into one word titles masquerading as names in those days."

Scott smiled. "You know, Dad, knowing would take all the fun out it."
|~~~~~|

For once, Mickey was actually glad to see his boss. Control worked his magic and the police released Mickey with a degree of respect he hadn't expected.

"Who am I?" Mickey asked as Control as they were taken to the property room.

"Oh, just a deputy under secretary of state."

"You're kidding? How did you get away with that?"

"By being an Under Secretary of State and bailing out the nephew of the Secretary of State. Get your stuff. We have one more job to do. I'll brief you on the way."

|~~~~~|
Friday Morning

Mickey arrived at work late. Heads turned and the chatter stopped as he sauntered into the mail room and pulled a stool over to the sorting table. Inwardly, Mickey grinned. Just the effect he wanted.

"And what were you up to last night, Kostmayer?" asked Mack, perched on the stool next to Mickey.

"Same old, same old," Mickey answered.

"Yeah?" Mack asked doubtfully. "Heard you were carted off to jail."

"Just a misunderstanding," Mickey replied. "Hand me that bin," he said pointing to the tub of mail waiting to be sorted.

"Ya know what I think? I think you're a cop or something," Mack said. "Otherwise you'd still be in jail."

Mickey grinned. "If I was a cop, do you think I'd be sorting mail now?"

"Guess not," Mack admitted. "So what really did happen last night?"

"They told me not to talk about it. Afraid I'll say something they don't want out."

Mack didn't have to be told who "they" were. Every worker knew who "they" were. "You gonna play tonight?" he asked.

"Sure," Mickey answered. "I said I would."

Mack pointed at a package at the end of the table. "That's your stuff. Hope it fits. Be at the park by six o’clock."

Mickey jumped off his stool. Time for Control's little plan to get under way.

The receptionist couldn't hide her surprise when Mickey pushed his cart off the elevator on the executive floor.

"I certainly didn't expect to see you here this morning," she blurted out.

"Grapevine get it wrong?" Mickey asked.

"Apparently so," she told him as the phone rang and ended the conversation.

Kostmayer keyed the door lock. Several people stared at him as he pushed the cart into the floor assistant room, but no one came near.

Mickey began sorting the envelopes into individual slots in the mail case, alert to any sounds coming from the hallway. The doorway was to the side and slightly behind him. He didn't like the set-up but there wasn't much he could do about it.

Sarah, Gleason's secretary, was his first visitor. "I understand you're quite the hero," she said with a smile, "took out an even dozen bad guys."

"Not quite," Mickey acknowledged. "More like three."

She chuckled. "I don't care if it was three or thirty; I want you to know how much we all appreciate what you did. Personally,” she said, lowering her voice, "It doesn't surprise me in the least that Johnston was into drugs. I'm glad he's gone."

Mickey smiled. "You're welcome," he told her. "I didn't like him much either."

"I'll take Mr. Gleason's mail if you like."

"Thanks, but I haven't finished sorting it yet," Mickey told her. "I'll deliver it with the rest of the stuff."

She smiled and left.

As Mickey was filling the mail cart, Daria stuck her head in. "You're the one who saved us," she said excitedly and threw herself at Mickey, wrapping her arms around him. "Thank you, so much," she enthused and kissed him. "Johnston was an awful person and you saved us all."

Mickey disentangled himself from Daria and gently pushed her away.

There were tears running down her cheeks. "Tears of happiness," she informed him. "He was such an awful man. He tried ... he tried ... once while we were working late ..." Daria's voice stopped and the tears fell afresh.

Mickey backed away, afraid Daria would once again throw herself at him. Her new incarnation was far more alarming than the snobbish bitch persona.

"Is that Mr. Johnston's mail?" she asked dabbing at her eyes. "I'll take it for you." She reached for the stack, but Mickey was quicker, moving the mail out of her reach.

"I'll bring it around in a few minutes," he told her. "Give you a chance to make yourself beautiful."

Daria sniffled. "I thought I was beautiful already." Again she reached for the envelopes and the package beneath.

Again, Mickey stopped her.

"Mr. Gleason wants me to open the mail and bring it to him," she announced. When she spoke again, her tone was once again that of the superior secretary to the inferior mail carrier, "And I intend to follow his orders."

"And if I don't let you?" Mickey asked.

"Then I'll just have to take it," Daria said, slipping her hand into the pocket of the stylish pants she wore.

"Oh?" Mickey said challenged. "You really think you can take me?"

With another chameleon-like change of mood, she cooed, "Not alone," then took out a gun and pointed it at him, "but with this I can."

Though her voice was soft, her eyes were hard. She knew he had taken out Johnston and Harper, she wasn't concerned. "Don't underestimate me," she purred. "That's what Johnston did and he paid the price."

"I wouldn't think of it," Mickey declared.

"Now, just hand me the large envelope . . . the one with the red 'X' and I'll slip away and you never saw me."

"I don't think I can do that," Mickey said. "The envelope isn't here. The police have it."

Daria's voice changed again. "It had better be here," she threatened. Daria waved the gun toward the stack of mail. "I suggest you find the package I want or this gun goes off."

"Right!" Mickey said and turned to the stack of mail. Daria wasn't near enough to take down before the gun went off. He'd wait until he found the package, or any package that sparked her interest. When she went for the package, he'd go for the gun.

He found one he thought would do. He turned toward Daria and saw her eyes glittering with anticipation. He held it out toward her with his left hand. With the gun in her right hand, she would have to take the package with her left hand. Mickey made certain he held the package above the level of the gun.

Daria moved closer, reaching for the package. Mickey dropped the package. His fingers closed on her wrist as he pushed her hand up and back, while he grabbed the gun with his other hand.

Daria dropped the package and kicked at him, but Mickey sidestepped the blow, twisting the gun out of her hand. Kostmayer restrained himself from using any of the more violent methods in his repertory to subdue her.

"You bastard," Daria screamed. Her arms flailed as she tried to attack him, succeeding in scratching his cheek in the process. "Help! Help! He's attacking me! Somebody help!"

A new voice drawled from the doorway. "He doesn't appear to be doing a very good job of it."

Mickey glanced briefly at Control, lounging at the entrance, hands thrust into his pockets.

"I could use a little help," Mickey said, trying vainly to grab both of Daria's arms and hold on to the weapon. "She's an octopus!" he gasped as Daria kicked him in the shins. "You could take the gun," Mickey gasped as he tried to pin Daria's arms to her sides.

"Wait 'til I tell Robert," Control drawled as he pushed himself upright. "Can't even disarm a young woman."

Mickey felt the gun being pulled from his fingers as Daria attempted to knee him. "Maybe you should take her," Kostmayer suggested.

"You're doing just fine," his boss assured him. "Think of it as a training exercise."

"What I think is that the next time you need a volunteer, get Stock!"

Mickey heard Control's soft chuckle as Daria made another attempted attack on one of the more sensitive areas of Kostmayer's anatomy.

"Miss, I suggest you give up," Control said pleasantly, "unless you want me to fire this weapon."

This only made Daria struggle more fiercely. She stopped abruptly when the gun exploded, filling the small area with smoke and the smell of cordite. There was now a neat hole in the wall--the bullet's trajectory passing just inches from Daria's head.

"That should bring security," Control said easily.

The group of staff members now crowding the hallway parted as Control walked through them still carrying the gun.

Daria started yelling again. "Rape! He tried to rape me."

"Somebody call security," Mickey yelled above the din. "Somebody call security or I swear I'll shut her up myself!"

Daria continued to thrash about screaming until the police, called by building security, arrived. Mickey released her at their request and she promptly threw herself into the arms of an officer, crying that Mickey had raped her.

Disgustedly, Mickey said, "Take me in, but take her too. She's the head of a drug smuggling ring using the company's mail room."

This was too much for the beat cops, who called in for backup. The arriving detective took one look at Kostmayer and said, "You again! I suppose this time you'll be a close relative of the President!"

For the second time in less than twenty-four hours, Mickey found himself a guest of the City of Chicago. At this hour of the morning, the holding cell was relatively empty, most of the night's occupants either out on bail or on their way to court. Mickey recognized a familiar face from the night before and nodded.

"Thought you were some kind of high muckity-muck," the cellmate observed as the door clanged shut behind Kostmayer.

"My uncle's reach isn't as long as I thought it was," Mickey agreed as he boosted himself into an empty upper bunk and stretched out. "Didn't get much sleep last night," he told the others, "and I'll appreciate it if you'll keep your voices down."

"You and who else," the inebriated gentlemen in the lower bunk challenged.

"Just me," Mickey answered with an evil grin. He casualty dropped to the floor and then whispered in the ear of the man in the lower bunk. "I kill people for a living. You want to be next?"

The felon retreated as far as he could to the other side of the narrow bunk. "No," he stammered. "No. Leave me alone or I'll call the guards."

Mickey smiled and hoisted himself back up to the top bunk. Now all he could do was wait for Control to bail him out again.

The man showed up several hours later, again freeing Mickey from the clutches of the law.

"Who am I this time?" Mickey asked his boss, fairly certain that his former identity had been jettisoned in favor of a more useful persona.

"Undercover DEA. Just follow my lead."

"Don't I always?"

"No!"

Mickey traded a signed form for his personal property and was once again a free man.

"Ready to go home?" Control asked as they stood outside on the sidewalk.

"Have to get my fishing gear."

Control glanced at his watch. "We've just got time to pick it up and meet Robert and Scott at Meiggs Field. They're flying back with us."

"Eh, I can't fly today," Mickey protested.

"Why ever not?" Control snapped. "You're due in the language lab Monday."

"I'll be there. I just can't go back this afternoon."

"Would you care to explain further or should I just accept your word for it?"

"Keep it up, Control, and I won't make it back on Monday," Mickey replied testily. "I took this job as a favor to you and now you can do a favor for me. Hold that plane until tonight."

"Meiggs doesn't operate at night. It'd have to land at Midway."

"So, land at Midway," Mickey said.

"Would you mind telling me why I'm putting the safety of the free world on hold?"

"I have to play softball."

"You have to do what?" Control asked darkly.

"Play softball. The team's short two players tonight and if they don't have the minimum, they'll forfeit. The championship's at stake." Mickey grinned. "I told them I'd be there. You wouldn't want me to go back on my word, would you Control? Give the DEA a bad rep? I've got a uniform and everything!"

"Kostmayer…"

"Consider it part of the favor, Control. See ya after the game."

"Kostmayer!"

Control watched Mickey stroll down the street, hands deep in his pockets. Control shook his head and allowed a slight grin to soften his features. Kostmayer was easily the most independent-minded agent the Company had. It was one of his talents which enabled the young agent to succeed where others might fail. Control valued that independence almost as much as Kostmayer did. Resigned to his fate, Control shoved his hands into his pockets and followed Mickey down the street.