Jane parked near a hangar at a private airport to find Deanna leaning against her car, cigarette in one hand, phone in the other. Deanna acknowledged her with a nod in the plane's direction. "Equipment's on board; just waiting on you. Got to warn you, though. The pilot's kinda nuts."

Considering the speaker, Jane wondered if that meant that he was completely insane or absolutely rational. She boarded, peeking into the cockpit to find Monty performing pre-flight checks, a set of headphones with a microphone dangling around his neck. "So, you can fly?"

He looked up from his clipboard and smiled at her. "I learned before entering the Army. My uncle was an airline pilot. He owned a small plane, taught me the basics, and he left it to me after he passed. Still have it; still love it. It's peaceful up there. I'm teaching Shesh. If you ever want to learn..."

"No. Thanks, though."

"Offer's always open. Anyways, we're getting underway in a bit. Buckle up, and don't waste your breath telling her to. She never does."

Soon, they were airborne. Jane closed her eyes, relaxing with the incline. Once they leveled out, Jane found Deanna pulling totes out of a small closet in the back. "Where are we going?" Jane asked.

"Michigan. We use the plane for longer trips. We store a little of everything here; gotta organize." Deanna burrowed through the containers, pulling out various wigs, weapons, driver's licenses, and other things, scattering all on the floor. "We have our own cities; you get Ypsilanti, I'm in Romulus, and Monty gets Detroit proper, with some crossovers when time allows. Tomorrow morning, I have a mass shooting. I like mass shooters. I get to collect so many cards with so little effort." She stared at a card and scowled. "Donald Syg-nah-something. Whatever.

"You," Deanna said, offering Jane a small group of cards. "All in better neighborhoods. Lots of natural causes and car crashes, one electrocution, a hit-and-run, and three rapes, one involving a nasty assault on an eighty-nine-year-old granny in her home. Actually," and she removed a card out of the stack, "that's better for Monty. He'll be closer, and he should have the time," and she added the card to a different pile. "He has that, plus, there's a massive gang war kicking off later tonight. Four different shootings, eight dead. Next night, retaliation and counter-retaliation has eight shooters and fifteen dead."

"And he's expected to stop them all by himself?"

"He usually does. He's an artist at dissuasion. Besides, he doesn't need to stop them all. He'll stop one or two until he gets to who's given the orders. Then, he'll zero in on where all the aggression and violence is stemming from and he'll cut the head off the snake."

"But no killing, right?"

"No," Deanna cooed. "That would be mean. Mean, mean, mean," she sang with a giggle as she tried on a variety of brass knuckles, concerned with which would best compliment her white outfit. Jane watched until the amazement wore off before proceeding up front.

She knocked on the cockpit door before entering, not wishing to startle the pilot. Jane found Monty engaged in conversation, his tone lacking the rigid propriety she expected with the control tower; rather, it was a softer, familial inflection used with a beloved friend. Monty noted her entrance and removed his headphones.

She pointed at the microphone. "If I'm interrupting..."

"No, come on in. Shut the door."

Jane complied, taking the co-pilot chair. After interpreting Monty's gestures, she put on and adjusted the other headphones and mike. Monty thumbed to the back. "How is she? Any problems?"

"No, she's off in her own little world. I don't exist."

"So, no fires?"

"Fires?"

"Last flight, she wanted to test to make sure some road flares hadn't gone bad."

"Good God almighty."

"Seriously, that time, I almost killed her."

"I imagine," Jane agreed. "I wanted to know something."

"Shoot."

"When we land, do we get rental cars, how does that work?"

"We have people as proxies, who are on retainer to facilitate our needs. Sensitive equipment, we move by plane, but we have dummy corporations that hire people to acquire cars, hotel rooms, office space when necessary. When we show, there'll be three cars, gassed up, awaiting our arrival."

"Is that why you're flying? So a hired pilot doesn't notice anything odd about us and what happens when we show up and leave?"

"In part, but also, I enjoy it. Every now and again, I'd take Lily up so we could just fly and fly away." He straightened in his seat. "The times I flew with her were some of the happiest that I could remember. We couldn't do it more than a dozen times, once or twice a year, but she couldn't hide how thrilled she was when we followed a flock of geese or when we burst through a field of clouds. Last time we did it, we flew over a massive corn maze. She loved it, and we would have done it more if we were able.

"Day or night, it didn't matter. Once, she wanted us to chase the horizon in the hopes that we could reach the brightest star in the sky. I warned her that we couldn't get that close, but it didn't matter. She'd be so excited that we'd just talk the whole time in the air about everything and nothing. Whenever I'm up here, in the quiet of the unending sky, I feel I'm with my little girl again."

Jane didn't say anything but nodded. She understood with whom he'd been talking and felt like an intruder in the spot reserved for a ghost. Jane chatted for another minute before saying she needed to leave to make sure Deanna wasn't causing any damage. Her departure was fortuitous, as Jane was soon yelling at Deanna that, no, safety did not insist that the fire extinguishers be checked at that moment.

***

As the Detroit evening descended on the city, a couple left the Sphinx night club for the parking lot, unaware of the threat behind them. A gunman raised his weapon when a voice spoke out.

"Don't do it, son." Monty kicked the back of one of the man's knees, causing him to fall, while Monty's free hand grabbed the wrist holding the pistol. The commotion drew the attention of the couple and the other man shielded his date while he pulled a revolver of his own.

"Pull a gun on me, Tony, huh? When I'm with my girl?"

"Step back, son," and Monty showed his weapon.

"You a cop?"

"No," Monty said. "I'm something else, but there'll be no killing tonight."

The intended victim, whose name Monty knew to be Gus, waved his hands in submission. "Seems you did right by me, so what now?"

"I want to give this man an opportunity to take a different path in which violence is not a part, the chance to turn his life around."

Enemies though they may have been, Gus and Tony laughed in unison. "Step off, old man," Gus said. He kept his gun pressed to his leg, his finger on the trigger. "Walk away."

Monty ignored him to keep his attention on Tony. "You're young, what, twenty-five? You have options. Gang life only promises you a short future filled with funerals and prison. If you continue, this won't be the last time someone has a gun on you, perhaps someone more intent on killing you, like that gentleman over there," Monty said, indicating Gus, who was quite amused by the entire scene, wiggling his own gun for effect.

"Damn, I'd rather that bitch shoot me than have to listen to this shit."

"You heard the man," Gus said, "He'd rather--"

"Either of you have kids?"

"Yeah," Tony said with a snort. "So what?"

"Is this how you want their futures to be, where life isn't precious and they're killed in the streets?"

"Shit, man, my boys are going to be strong. They'll be Oh-el-nine, just like me. I'm Oh-el-nine. My father was Oh-el-nine, my uncle and my brothers are Oh-el-nine, and we'll be Oh-el-nine forever."

"Well, then I'm sorry for you. You're going to ruin your children's lives and you'd ruin the lives of any other children you may have. I'm not a cop, so I can't arrest you, and I'm not going to kill you, son. I don't have that right. I believe in saving lives, not taking them. I can only try to help you see another way, where you can be a productive member of society," Monty said, lowering his gun. Gus started a smile and an approach.

"Just not reproductive," Monty concluded as he shot Tony between the legs.

The scream was louder than the report of the gun as the front of Tony's pants exploded with a red burst. He crumbled in a ball as Monty raised his weapon on Gus, who managed better at not vomiting than his girlfriend. Monty stepped forward, his gun leveled between Gus' eyes, whose face fluctuated between shades of white and green.

Monty let his eyes drop to Gus' weapon for a moment. "Put it away and walk away. Any conflict you have with him is settled."

"Man wanted to shoot me and my girl."

"And he'll live with the repercussions of that decision every day forward. Walk away, or what happened to him happens to you."

The girl pulled on Gus' arm. "Let's go. Please. God, it's horrible."

Monty glared at her. "This is what you get when you hang with thugs."

"Fuck you, you psycho," and she dragged her boyfriend past the whimpering, wailing Tony. The couple appeared disgusted by the scene, but neither could look away.

"One more thing," Monty said over his shoulder. "This is just the start. There are no Oh-el-nine streets or Braco streets. This week, there are only my streets and anyone who looks to lay harm on another will suffer the same fate." He picked up Tony's gun and placed it in the back of his waistband. "Tell your friends."

***

The news of the plant closure circulated among the employees as quickly as it did with the spouses and significant others, the information rippling through the community like a seismic tremor. The mayor and council members were caught unaware. The factory was the lifeblood of the city, employing seven percent of the city population. Seven percent unemployed meant seven percent less business in the local shops, seven percent of friends and families scrambling and suffering, and one hundred percent more agony in the already struggling town.

Every watering hole was packed beyond maximum allowable capacity, but today, even the fire marshal did not care, as he was chugging beers as hard as the rest of them. Donald Sygnestryski downed his third scotch at the bar. When the bartender's attention turned to him, Donald tapped his empty glass with his finger before resuming his conversation.

"It's not fair," his friend bemoaned. "We put our hearts and souls into that damn place."

"You think I don't know that," Donald snapped. "My whole family works there. My father and uncle, my sister in the main office..."

"Has she heard anything? Any chance they'll change their minds?"

"From what Donna's saying, they're already preparing severance packages."

A man two spots down the bar spoke up. "I heard that they'll let us keep our jobs if we'd be willing to move."

"I'm not dragging my whole family cross country."

"Well, then," came the response, "I guess you don't really need the work."

The Sygnestryski temper was legendary. Even the secretary Sygnestryski sister was known for going ballistic on occasion. Donald stood with a force that propelled his stool a foot away before it toppled over. "You're going to talk that bullshit to us?" He stepped over and grabbed the man's jacket. "Talk shit about people about to lose their jobs?"

His co-worker pulled him off and several others were quick to intercede. With tempers as frayed as they were, the whole room expected a brawl at any time, but the last thing anyone needed was to go to jail. It was the first percolation of a fight this evening and it wouldn't be the last. Shouts and curses were exchanged, and Donald was dragged away to his car. One of his friends took his keys to become his undesignated driver.

Leaving late at night, Donald noted the interstate curving around the plant, seeing the road as an extension of the factory itself. Watching the taillights of cars heading its way and headlights departing from its direction, he imagined the vehicles as red blood cells pumping in and white blood cells gushing out, the smokestacks powering the heart of the town. Soon that pulse would wane, and incrementally, these arteries would start to starve away.

***

Henry thought about how happy he was to be with his family. He'd seen a lot in the war, sustained a nagging head injury from a sniper, and spent four months in the infirmary. His brain didn't work the same, they said, but he didn't care. He had a pleasant life and thought of this when he fell asleep.

It was after sundown when Henry awoke in a strange bed in a strange room with white walls free of painted landscapes and familial photographs. He felt a series of aches and joint pains, and a slight dizziness accompanied his sitting upright. It seemed less that he was in a hotel room than a house of a foreign nature. His right hand instinctively reached down for the base of his bed, expecting his fingers being licked or nuzzled by a furry chin.

Lupo should be there. He went everywhere with Henry. Henry never would have left town without him. Henry patted his leg several times and attempted a whistle. No sounds of identity tags clinking together on a collar, no noise of claws scraping floor tiles from a gallop through the house.

"Sandy," he called out. "Sandy, are you there?"

The belief that his wife was nearby receded by the room's appearance. Clothing was on the desk chair and floor, several glasses sat atop the bureau, and bathroom towels haphazardly draped an open shower curtain. The state of disarray was the most frightful thing. His initial fear was from Sandy's wrath at the disorder. Even in solitude, he instinctually braced for the berating that loomed in his future.

But this was not his home. He wandered around this alien place and the unkempt nature summoned more dread. As much as he feared Sandy's reaction, the fear of her vanishing was more terrifying. He examined his surroundings further, noting dishes piled in the sink. Everything was wrong. The pictures in the living room were of strangers, an older couple, some family, but nothing indicating where he was or what what had happened to Lupo or Sandy.

Henry picked up keys found in the entryway and exited the building to find a car outside. He would go home. Henry understood. He drank too much and lost his way, and Sandy would be a fury unseen before, but in this moment, he welcomed the expectation of salty language and sharp-tongued rebukes. Right now, he needed the comfort of something familiar as a harpy shrill.

Henry didn't recognize the model of the car but the vehicle looked as worn as Henry felt. He had to find Sandy, he had to find his home. He started the car and navigated an exit from the driveway to the road ahead.

***

A lady knows her home, and when one's been in a home for eighty-nine years, it ceases to surprise. The groan of the rafters in the wind-chilled night, the gurgle of the pipes when the faucets have been off too long, these are the things that Phyllis knew. Her home was now hers and hers alone, as her children had moved on, and as too, most of her neighbors. Her empty house was surrounded by other empty houses, but this just suited her fine, and besides, her Pomeranian, Princess, was company enough. She knew her home, all its tics and peculiarities, so it was odd to see her living room curtains flutter from left to right.

Her years informed her that this movement was not due to the natural seepage of air through the windows, but the opening of the side door. This was confirmed by Princess' attempt to investigate, followed by her ears falling back and teeth bared as she snarled at the side of the house, and then there was the floorboard creak that only sounded when weight was applied. Someone was in her home. She tried to move to the kitchen phone, but she heard a few running steps before someone tackled her from behind.

She grabbed at the phone cord that dangled down to the floor, and her action caused the receiver to fall and break open. Phyllis wanted to scream or yell, but all she managed was a wailing howl as her arthritic hands struggled to pull herself free. A hand grappled to cover her mouth, dislodging her dentures, and she imagined the unimaginable indignities she would undergo after so many years of an uneventful life. The weight of the person suffocated her as she struggled for wheezing breaths, and then it was over.

The pressure subsided in an instant as she realized two people were in her house, fighting between themselves. She clasped a kitchen chair and got to her knees, but her bad back made this difficult. She didn't know who either of them was, but she assumed one to be the aggressor and the other, her rescuer, so she called out, hoping for her hero to hear:

"Whup his ass!" the lady screeched.

Phyllis saw her dentures near Princess' dog dishes. This was life and death; no time for niceties. A quick splash in the water bowl, a wipe on her house dress, and her teeth were re-affixed. She staggered up to witness the melee continuing in her living room.

The two moved the ways people did in all those kung-fu action movies that she never watched. There were kicks and punches and wrestling, and Princess danced about the floor, shivering and snapping at the pair. Both were tall, and she could not distinguish her savior until the duo crashed into a dresser and her porcelain statue of the Blessed Virgin Mary wavered before tipping towards the floor.

One of the men caught her.

In that moment, she designated that man Her Hero. Her Hero brought the statue base down on his adversary's head three times, the last time causing the invader to crumble. Her Hero replaced Mary on the dresser before pouncing on the one crawling across her rug. An arm around his neck and Her Hero stood, dragging his opponent with him. He looked to Phyllis, who had recovered her footing, and asked, "Are you all right?"

Her response was to grab her kitchen broom near the refrigerator and point it at the transgressor. "Beat the everlasting Jesus out of him!"

"Believe me, I tried. I didn't know he'd be so big, or that he'd know how to fight." He tilted his head nodded towards the front door. "If you don't mind. I don't want to make a mess in here."

What a gentleman. Phyllis imagined that the reason her rescuer hadn't appeared moments quicker was because he took the time to wipe his feet before entering her home. She turned the knob, yelling at the captive figure while smacking his face with broom bristles. The two men stumbled out, linked together, and Phyllis continued to yell obscenities from her doorstep, suggesting all manners of things that should be done to a person who would attack a lady so. She unleashed a litany of ideas as to what should be inflicted on such a man, and damn, if Her Hero didn't choose one.

***

Raymond had been bicycling at night near Old Ms. Phyllis' house when he saw two people burst from her house to the yard. He stopped at the fence and saw the crazy old hag screeching and cursing as always, and the witch even had a broom in her hand this time. It was odd to see men coming from her house, as no one went near that nutty bat or her nasty dog. It was odder that one was leading the other to the middle of the yard. What happened next froze Raymond in place.

When Raymond told the story, it wasn't the shot that he would remember or the weapon in the man's hand. It was the screams as one man flopped on the ground while the other offered life lessons, hovering above like some gun-toting guidance counselor. When the man turned his attention to Raymond, the boy listened and made every word his mantra. Yes, he would obey what his parents said and he would do well in school. No, he wouldn't do drugs and he wouldn't join a gang. He would help in his community, he wouldn't be a burden on society, and he absolutely, most definitely, would tell his friends.

***

Donald stared in the washer as the water level rose. He escaped to the garage with his laundry, leaving his wife sobbing in the bedroom. This wasn't one of their typical fights; more like two people yelling in one another's direction. He held his clothes in a bundle in his arms. It wasn't a large enough pile to justify a load; he just needed an excuse to leave the bedroom. All she had was questions and fears, and he had no answers or reassurances. He spied through the shimmering surface a scattering of a dozen coins that probably loosed themselves from the kids' jeans. His washer seemed a domestic wishing-well, and part of him wanted to toss in a coin and a prayer to the water gods, and another part felt the urgency to grab all the money he could.

He did neither. The water stopped pouring and the washer awaited his next move. He dropped his laundry in, splashed an unmeasured amount of liquid soap into the mix, and shut the lid. The washer churned merrily along, and Donald lost himself in the sound as he tried not to think.

His wife entered the garage, cradling her belly with one hand and carefully navigating the step in the garage. He didn't want to start fighting again, especially considering he couldn't find any way to blame her for this.

"We should consider selling the house."

It was like she was looking for ways to make him upset. "We're not selling the house."
"We were already talking about it."

"To move to some place bigger," he snapped. "I will find something else."

"And I believe you," she said in a way that acted supportive while not being completely honest. "We were talking about it, so let's just do it. We only owe twenty thousand left. We sell the house and when you get another job, we put the rest as a down payment. And didn't I hear you could keep your job if we moved?"

"We're not pulling the kids out of school and away from their friends." He raised his tone but not his volume. Margery already miscarried once between their two boys, and he didn't want her to become agitated to where she lost another. They already had a name, Dawn, and had told the boys, unless one wished to sleep with a screaming newborn, they need to room together for a time until they got a new house with a nursery. Now, all those plans were fading like ungraspable dreams.

"It's not fair. It's just not fair. They don't care about what happens to us."

"I know that."

She stayed with him for another hour, and he kept his attention on the washer's progress, but it was that last sentence that stuck with him. It wasn't fair; they didn't care. Those from the corporate offices may stroll about tomorrow with glum looks on their mugs, but they had no true idea of the fear they caused. They had no comprehension what it was like to lose everything. They weren't working people. They wouldn't be able to handle this if it happened to them. He stared at the washer and plotted what he would do tomorrow.

***

It took some time for Henry to escape the maze of cul-de-sacs and looped streets to arrive at the interstate. His city was the same but altered. Two-lane roads were four-lane highways. Some billboards were stationary, while others flickered like changing television channels. Chain restaurants still existed but were futuristic in design and lighting.

He found his way to a familiar street, but everything was twisted from memory. Well-known businesses were run down or modernized, or else obliterated entirely by new ownership or a wrecking ball. Somehow, his community had marched through time without him.

Henry piloted his car towards his home, streets he had travelled for years. The neighborhood had never been in the best of shape but the decay and disrepair was traumatic to his spirit. The dread horror that crept through him reached an apex when Henry arrived in front of his house.

The home in which he had been born and in which he had raised a family now sat as a dying husk. The roof was collapsed, the intact windows were edged with soot, and the front door was off its hinges. A sign in the front condemned the property and graffiti disrespected the walls. The yard was a wilderness of weeds and overgrowth that Sandy would never have permitted without incessant prodding in Henry's direction.

Sandy. Sandy was gone. Somehow this alien world had swallowed his past and cast it back out in some disjointed form. So often, he had dreamt of her vanishing, yet now that this had bloomed into fruition, he felt a disquiet terror of never again hearing her dulcet screeches or the soothing reassurance of her chalkboard-scratching voice that frightened the dog ever so.

Sandy was gone, and Lupo, too. He couldn't imagine Sandy taking him with her. She complained unendingly about the dog hair on the floor and Lupo always darted away from the terror of her stomping approach. Henry had to find Sandy, find where she had gone, find what had happened to his life and his world. The other houses in the neighborhood seemed rundown as well, though he tried knocking on several doors. The only respondent yelled at Henry for the late hour annoyance, as well as stating a total disregard for Sandy or her whereabouts. As he reached the end of the block, a memory lit into his thoughts.

Tobias Sinclair. Tobias knew everything. He knew who was moving out and who had just settled in, who had just received a promotion and who would soon be closing shop. When he wasn't tending to his bar, he was down at the lodge sharing war stories. He'd know what happened to Henry, Henry's family, and Henry's life.

Henry walked towards the lights of town. His knees signaled their objections to the journey through the flaring of nerve endings, but Henry was not stopping until he found the loving clutch of Sandy's embrace and saw the sweet countenances of his children. He welcomed her harsh admonishments and imagined the comfort of her lectures. He promised himself before God that given the chance to see her again, he would treasure those thorny recriminations. He would work harder to find the smile underneath her scowl and to search for that childish twinkle in her stink-eye gaze.

In the town, shops were lit at night and strange store fronts had replaced familiar friends. Gone were the post office, the stationary shop, and the auto dealership. Edmund's Ice Cream Parlor was usurped with a yogurt dispensary and the comic book store had been supplanted by a mattress shop offering bargains on closeout models.

A teenager in a New York basketball jersey passed, entranced by a small illuminated slab in his palm. When Henry asked if the boy knew where Sandy was, the response displayed vulgarity and distrust. Henry continued down the foreign streets that materialized miraculously in his hometown. His approach took him to the location of Tobias' pub, the Village Inn.

Across the street, the columns that supported the façade of Henry's watering hole now bore the banner of the Union Hotel, a five-story building that seems to have grown out of the peak of the tavern. This shook him more than the possible loss of his wife. The Village Inn had been a stalwart constant, unchanging and never aging. Where spirits and speeches once flowed free, an obnoxious lobby had sprouted in its place. Henry proceeded towards the monstrosity when a hand grabbed his arm.

"Watch out," a woman said, pulling him back. A white panel truck barreled by, almost hitting him. The slipstream caused him to stagger, but the woman braced his movement.

"Are you okay?" she asked with a sweet voice that his wife could never attain.

"Have you seen Sandy?" He was near tears and his lower lip trembled.

"I don't know Sandy, but I do know people have been looking for you."

"Really?"

"Yes. They want you to wait there in the lobby, and someone will be along to bring you home."

Henry bawled softly and the woman hugged him from the side, helping guide him across the road. The old man wiped his eyes and straightened his gait as he headed to the hotel. Jane smiled and tapped a number in her phone. "Hello, is this the Union Hotel? I was driving by your building and I think I saw an elderly gentleman matching a missing Alzheimer's patient from the news. If he comes in, will you be sure to call the authorities?... Thank you, that's rather kind... Yes, you, too." Jane hung up and watched as Henry shambled into the hotel to be greeted by the concierge. He got the old man settled on a couch and called a number on the desk phone, and Jane was able to smile before she retreated into the darkness.

***

The phone rang and Alec answered while driving, putting Mitchell's call on speaker. "Yeah?"

"Where are you?"

"We're nearly there." 'We' referred to four of Alec's friends in the car who had just joined the gang with him. " 'Bout two minutes. What's going on there?"

The call had only gone out for help, no specifics, just to get guns and members to Mitchell's house as soon as possible. They had no idea why until the response of, "We're getting slaughtered here," followed by gunshots.

"Slaughtered?" Alec didn't want to be slaughtered, and his foot eased slightly off the gas pedal. "What do you mean, slaughtered?"

"He's shooting everybody!" came the screeching reply. "He already got Rog, and I think I heard Mike screaming earlier. Get down here now!"

Alec didn't want to be shot or screaming, either. Mitchell and his brother Mike were two of the toughest guys in the neighborhood. No one messed with them and all the girls loved them. They were why Alec joined the gang. If they couldn't handle one person, how were five untrained teenagers with two guns amongst them going to make a difference? The whispering from the backseat increased in volume and intensity. "What's going on back there?" As both the driver and the oldest, he was in charge.

"Lulu texted me. It's the guy from Philly. He's shooting everyone in town."

Alec skidded the car to a stop. Everyone in the car knew who that referred to. The jokes that the five of them had made about what happened to the people in Philadelphia, the idea of dicks and balls being blown to pieces, seemed funny or badass when it was happening on the East Coast, not when it was two blocks away.

"Get your asses--" and the sentence was never finished as there was a crashing sound, followed by shots and grunts and the clatter of the phone hitting the ground. "No, fuck, no. Don't," Mitchell could be heard to whimper.

"Sorry, son. You made your choice," and then there was a shot and a scream. Mitchell was shrieking as a voice spoke. "You acted like a criminal and expected a criminal's end. You don't get that. I decide what happens on the streets tonight, so tell your friends that I'm coming for your friends that are rapists and murderers and thieves. The only question I have now is," and the phone could be heard being picked up and the voice resounded clear. "Am I now speaking to some of your friends?"

No one disagreed as Alec turned the car around and drove away.

***

Monty drove to the next destination on his list, a house that would be sprayed with machine gun fire. He waited until five minutes past the reported time before leaving. Monty checked the next three locations, never having to exit his vehicle. The streets were clear, the neighborhoods quiet. Even men who don't fear death fear something, and today, that thing was Montgomery Vance the Third. No one was going to step out of line tonight, probably not tomorrow either. Just like Philadelphia.

***

Donald pulled out from his driveway, taking what represented a trip to the gallows. It was a journey taken five times a week, navigated on automatic, often while listening to the radio or talking on the phone. These instinctive turns today took new meaning. With moderate traffic, it took fourteen minutes to get from home to work. He took his time today, examining each store front, looking for welcoming HELP WANTED signs, finding only an abundance of empty shops.

He had heard how times were tough and jobs were scarce, but he hadn't worried. The company had been doing well, and Donald was good at his job, damn good. He kept the line moving on his part of the conveyor belt and had worked enough of the other positions to understand the way the operation functioned as a whole. His supervisor spoke of how he thought that Donald would be a fine replacement for him when he was promoted. He recommended that Donald invest in some business classes to show upper management that he'd be a good prospect, so Donald took some college night courses. He discovered economic acronyms like EBITDA, slogged through statistics, and gained general acquaintance with contract language and structure.

It wasn't the monetary expenditure; that was only a few thousand dollars. It was how the company made him feel like a fool. The monthly safety meetings fused with mini pep rallies would celebrate a new expansion or the company's earnings and profits, a cosmic joke played on everyone that labored there. Emails and notices placed on bulletin boards spoke on the business' stability and desire to grow. Those who forced team building exercises on grown men plotted in the shadows of their corner offices the destruction of those beneath them.

A man should never intertwine the aspirations of his life with the fortunes of a business, but when years of sustenance and one's successes seemed in concert with the improvement of a company, a familial dependency settles in. When these bonds are shattered not through natural fault but betrayal, someone needed to stand up, send a message, and make sure everyone heard it, and that's what he was going to do at the meeting today, a meeting no one would ever forget.

Donald wondered if he'd ever be able to drive this path again. He stopped at a light, considering whether to go forward into the shame or else head to the nearest bar. A motion caught his eye from the car on his right. He turned to see an attractive blonde woman trying to draw his attention with a wave. She rolled down her window, but he returned his gaze to the stoplight. Gorgeous women never needed him before, and he was in no mood to be charitable now. He didn't know what she wanted, he didn't care about her problems, didn't see the gun or the muzzle flash. He didn't hear the side window shatter, but did feel the bullet go through his cheek, six teeth, and his tongue, but didn't feel anything else as the second bullet impacted behind his ear and then he didn't have to worry about anything anymore.

***

Jane met with the others in a diner at nine. The building's interior could have been pulled from the nineteen-fifties, with its elongated shape, rich red barstools, and signage bearing the braggadocious claim of the best milk shakes this side of the Mississippi. On a muted close-captioned television above the register, a news reporter struggled to describe the events of the previous night without explicit language. Several customers outside their group requested sound and the waitress consented with a smile. The reporter continued to talk, attempting to keep the story within acceptable bounds for children's ears. Monty shook his head at the reporting.

"I'm tall, but not six-six."

Deanna laughed behind her coffee cup. Jane sighed and looked about, making sure that they had reasonable privacy. The room was transfixed on the television with bemusement or horror. To Monty, she said, "This is the crazy shit I expect out of her, not you."

"It worked."

Deanna's giggling formed bubbles in her drink, and when she placed the cup down, a drop of coffee glistened on the tip of her nose. "Why are you acting surprised? I told you what he was going to do."

"You absolutely did not. Not that. I had no idea he was going to do that."

"Of course she did," Deanna said to Monty. "She knew. I told her. I was very specific with my words. I said you'd find the ones giving the orders, and then--"

Jane cut her off with a wave of a hand and directed her ire at Monty. "I'm sorry. I expected better."

"You don't understand."

"Fine. Explain it to me."

It was his turn to sigh. "For a lot of kids, joining a gang isn't about wanting to kill someone or becoming a criminal. It's about protection or being able to look up to someone bigger than them. They'll exist day to day, doing the same thing until they end up imprisoned or dead. Hardly one of them can imagine themselves as doctors or astronauts or tech gurus. Their only plans are to hang out with friends, get high, get laid, and perhaps get rich quick. I can't tell you how many people I knew when I was growing up that didn't see a future for themselves and didn't fear death, but there were things that did scare them. A family member with a medical condition, a friend in peril, or a horrible injury. What was presented today was unimagined pain, the inability to ever be with women, and the accompanying shame. It's effective."

"One of those people was a rapist. With a rapist, that may seem like justice, but their crimes are based on violence, not sex. In this one instance, you may have made things worse."

"He attacked a woman living on her own, and someone appeared out of nowhere. He's going to jail, and he'll think twice the next time," Monty said. "If you're concerned, we could have Ernest keep an eye on him."

"Well, I don't care," Deanna said. "We did good today. Got a lot accomplished."

"At least he waited until night. You shot someone in the middle of the city in broad daylight."

"Please. It's Detroit. It's part of the ambiance."

The reporter on the television was interrupted by the station news anchor. "This just in. Breaking news out of Romulus: the acts of gun violence seem to have no end as another workplace shooting has occurred. Reports coming in have at least nine confirmed dead and at least another dozen seriously injured. Witnesses claim that the shooter is sixty-nine-year-old Donald Sygnestryski, lead floor operator of the Romulus Auto Manufacturing Plant. Sygnestryski is reported as deceased in a shootout with authorities.

"In what may be unrelated news, his son, Donald Sygnestryski, Jr., was found earlier today shot and critically injured in what appears to be a drive-by shooting. Police are investigating to determine whether there is any correlation between the two incidents."

***

Two hours of non-stop screaming between Jane and Deanna on the plane. Monty had the advantage of headphones, a shut door, and the motor roar, and he still was able to catch most of the dialogue. Deanna argued she shouldn't be responsible for bad intel and checks should have been done beforehand; Jane retorted by calling her a psychopathic sociopath in various forms.

A break occurred in the fighting when he relayed a call from Graham. His message was that he didn't call last night to interrupt them when there was nothing they could do. Ernest had been hospitalized yesterday with multiple strokes, and things were not looking good. Jane would be the only one to exit the plane; after a quick refuel and a switching out of equipment, Monty and Deanna were heading to Providence. They had over twenty names for the evening, and there was still a job to do. Standing by Ernie's bed may have been a symbolic show of support, but it would come at a cost of lives. The best thing Monty could do would be to separate the women. Jane needed answers, and Deanna needed an outlet for her anger.

Jane hustled into the hospital ward as quick as possible without drawing attention. Visiting hours were over, so she found Sheshai without her headscarf, sitting in the waiting room, looking tired, scared and sad. Jane paused to compose herself before asking, "How is he?"

Sheshai offered a small shrug. "He's had a series of strokes. He might be okay, but we won't know about brain damage until a full battery can be run."

Jane dropped down beside her. "What happened?"

"He was focused on a future project--"

"I mean with Michigan. Did Graham tell you?" Sheshai nodded. "Then why was he working on something else when what was being worked on now needed to be checked? That maniac shot an innocent man."

"We had a day. He thought we had a window to look in on something, but things just kept getting worse." Sheshai ran her hand through her hair. "In one month, the Washington Monument is going to be the centerpiece of a terrorist attack. Nearly a hundred dead."

"Ernest mentioned it before. Call the FBI."

"We can't."

"We can and we damn well will," Jane hissed quietly, conscious she was still in a hospital. "After the shit that just happened, this is one time we don't handle things ourselves. We're contacting the goddamn authorities."

"You don't understand," Sheshai said, looking up at her. "We can't contact anyone. We have to let it happen."