C.I.A. questioned the informant again and he confessed there could have been a third man, but it would require a small additional payment, of which the Agency gladly paid."
"Bruce, I want you to relay our ID of Gunderson to our other agencies. Do not pass on my suspicion they both or perhaps all three may be traveling as bikers. You haven't done so already have you? I mean you're not a spy siphoning off our findings without my knowledge are you?"
"No, sir!" Bruce snapped straight up. "I am loyal to my team and would never disclose information without your authorization."
"Appreciate it, kid. I never had any real doubt but had to say it. Your response has been duly noted. Still friends?" Bruce nodded vigorously, 'yes'. "I have a feeling the next part of the puzzle is going to be a lot tougher and this is what I have been talking about our staying the course. I know you've been itching to get out and perform some hands-on field work. I understand completely." He held up a fist-full of documents, "This is the investigation for now, no glory. When we go out that door it'll be to put the cuffs on or to gather intell which can only be obtained up close and personal. Trust me, it's coming." He paused then declared, "We must find out who Mister Shadow is... or rather, you do. I'm going to concentrate on where he or they are going and perhaps that'll give us an indication of the 'Why'. We all know he stole vital information from N.A.S.A. and their butt is in a snit. But why? What is it? First, you need to find out who the Timeshare users are of Starfinder. You may have to interview all the personnel at all three moon bases. Don't worry; you shouldn't have to go there. The point I'm trying to make is we may have to reach beyond our own backyard."
Four days later
"Agent Bruce, come take a look at this release just off a local news wire in Denver. It states a biker was killed by the local police while responding to a 'man with a gun' call in some back-water town named Durango. That in itself is not so strange except for his name: Fredrik Johannsen. Why does that name ring a bell? Is he one of the possible coconspirators?"
The young man became excited, "Yes, he is. His name is on the ever expanding list of 'people of interest' connected to Atwater and his name was first mentioned at our initial N.S.A. briefing. As I can recall from my research, they graduated together at M.I.T." Bruce went to his desk. "Here it is. I was correct. They were roommates for two years. He is... er was an astrophysicist working in Sweden, his native country."
"Sonny, I think we've found Mister Shadow. Kitty, please book us a flight to Denver with connections to Durango. Bruce, it looks like you're finally going to get some field work. You need to be ready to go in thirty minutes."
"Thank you, sir. But please let me arrange the air travel. You won't be disappointed and my bag is always packed and ready."
"Okay, if it suits you," acknowledged Crenshaw. "Kitty, don't release any info yet. I'll call you from the scene." To Bruce, "Glad to see you're on your toes but making the travel arrangements? What's up with that?"
Later, Agent Whitaker in his new Lincoln Electra Glide, pulled up next to Crenshaw's thirteen year old Toyota. He popped the trunk, "Toss in your gear, sir. I hope you don't mind if I drive." The vehicle's safety restraints automatically secured the new passenger as Jack nestled into the plush seat. "I know the fastest way to the airfield."
"Oky-doky, kiddo. You people in the Bureau must make a hecka lot more money than I figured," referring to the car.
"Money? Oh, no. It was a twenty-first birthday gift from my grandfather." Jack crinkled his nose. Bruce smiled and wondered, "How does he remember all of these old-time expressions? Some sound like they're from two hundred years ago."
Whitaker drove up and parked next to an ex-military, grey and silver supersonic Machbuster jet. It resembled a big triangle. Surprised, Jack said, "What is this thing? An Air Force interceptor?"
"Almost," answered Bruce. "It used operate as a recon bomber which now has been modified for the Bureau's top priority missions. It's a hover-craft when its wings are extended as they are now. It lifts off, retracts its wings and blasts off, accelerating to mach two. When it reaches its destination it drops down right on the target."
"Cool. I usually fly Commercial, Coach and sometimes Standby. Of course, you know once this puppy takes off the cat will be out of the bag and everyone will know where we're headed."
Bruce grinned again and returned, "Don't worry; we'll be on the scene before they can assess and respond." He then wondered, "Cool, puppy and cat-bag"?
"Are you the guys who made us maintain this crime scene for six hours?" blustered the irate Colorado state trooper. He pointed at the bullet ridden body of Fredrik Johannsen. "You're from the U.S. Marshall's Office?" He gave Jack the up and down. "Did you come all the way here just to take custody of a corpse? I'm supposed to see my son's ball game tonight; I don't have time to play nursemaid to some Washington butt kissers. Thanks a lot, Deputy," and spat on the ground.
"Sorry about that... I truly am," returned Jack. "We came as fast as we could," and gestured toward the supersonic jet. "You're not exactly on the beaten path you know."
"So what?" challenged the C.S.P. officer. "You couldn't have sent one of your local boys?"
"Not really," rebuffed Crenshaw. "Are you familiar with the a.p.b. on Louis Atwater? He may now be the most hunted man in U.S. history and we believe this man," pointing at the prone body, "was traveling with him."
"Well, I'll be dipped," spouted the trooper. "Boys, I think we're going to get some over-time pay out of this and our faces in tomorrow's newspaper." His comrades hooted their approval. "Take all the time you want, Mister Marshall. However we may be of assistance, please feel free to ask" and patted his wallet.
"Thank you gentlemen; it shouldn't take long," said Jack. "We'd like to examine his body, get the details of the shoot-out and ask a few questions to the patrons of the bar... roadhouse."
"No problem with the first two parts Deputy but number three..." advised the lead trooper. "Those Bandits have been in lock-down for quite a while and drinking heavy all along. They're either going to clam up or cut your throat. It's a coin toss in my book. And sorry, but we have no intentions of going in there with you... they're too f'ing dangerous."
"Thanks for the warning," acknowledged Jack. "We'll start with the body."
Fredrik Johannsen's body revealed a slender man in his late forties, Scandinavian blond hair and blue eyes. His biker outfit looked new and ill fitted. He had seven or eight bullet wounds. Rural law enforcement didn't utilize electronic, disabling weapons because the distance to the target was usually too great and the offenders were extremely violent, hostile criminals or just down right crazy. The first two responders thought he was the latter but learned later he had also been threatening, waving two handguns inside and making speeches. Upon arrival, they immediately encountered Fredrik's screaming and ranting burst from the bar. He did not appear intoxicated. He ran around in circles cursing and shouting, "There is no God!" then fired several shots at an imaginary figure in the sky.
The officers yelled back, "Drop your weapons! You won't be harmed!"
Johannsen ranted on, "It's the end of the world!" then laughed hysterically. "We can only hope so. And the sooner the better!" He then stopped and squinted at the local police as several real bikers watched through the windows. "Don't you understand you fools? We're just toys... toys in a mad and crazy universe." He stared at the gun in each hand then rushed the two lawmen while firing over their heads. They mowed him down then quickly ran to him and checked for vital signs. He whispered, "You'll see," then passed away. The two first responders had already called for back-up which arrived five minutes later. During the ensuing wait they observed two men on cycles speed away from the rear of the establishment. The two officers then split up and positioned themselves with one in front and one at the rear of the building for containment. Several more troopers arrived.
"I reckon we go in next," reasoned Jack. Bruce didn't appear eager but didn't object.
It was dark inside; many of the patrons w
ere either passed out, asleep on the floor or lying across the tables. Jack counted five men still standing and drinking at the bar. They were large, smelled bad, ugly and glared back with hostile intentions. No wait; there was another, a sixth man alone at the far end of the bar who appeared to be trying to avoid the law's inquiring reconnaissance. "That's the guy we want to talk to," and they began making their way in his direction while steering wide of the others. The Bandit turned and faced them when he sensed their approach.
"Easy now, Big Guy. We're not here to cause trouble," softly offered Crenshaw. "I know your buddies are watching to see if you talk to the Law... We don't know who you are and don't intend to find out but I'd give odds you're wanted for something, somewhere. Our business is with the fellow lying outside with his face in the dirt. Okay?" Jack whispered, "All I want to know is how many others were with him." He felt sure the other bikers couldn't hear him, "Just gimme a number and we'll be on our way."
The Bandit's eyes darted back and forth between the duo in front of him and the men at the bar. He spoke in a loud voice, "I ain't telling you cock-suckers nothin'!" then turned away and placed his right hand on the bar-top with two fingers extended.
Recognizing the ploy, Jack barked, "We're not going