Martha looked over at Sam as they passed the sign.

"Damnation Alley?"

Sam grinned.

"The Stormers have their own brand of humor," he replied. "They clown around a lot, but they're deadly serious at work."

"Storm Wolves. Who makes up these names?"

"Beats me," Sam replied. "A lot of these outfits are a mixed bag. Bound to be a few smart-asses."

"What is our wolf like?" she asked.

"Eccentric, naturally. Brilliant. Those seem to go together."

"How dangerous is he?"

"On a scale of one to ten," Sam replied, "about a one. Unless he sees you as a threat. Then he's as dangerous as any of these folks, if not more so."

A few miles after passing the sign Sam turned onto an unpaved road. It was clay gravel, but smooth and free of holes or ruts. Small rocks struck the underside of the truck constantly.

"On a scale of one to ten, how irritated will be be?" she asked.

"Ten," replied Sam, grinning.

"Nice."

"He said come on out," Sam said. "So he should be relatively hospitable."

"You ever met him?"

"Nope. Know him by reputation, impressive if half of it's true."

"You think he's going to work for us?"

"I figure he will. When he finds out why we want him."

"Walter Bloomfield?"

"Yep."

The road entered a forest, apparently composed entirely of pine trees. Big ones. There was a narrow and shallow ditch along either side of the road, which was had a light cover of pine needles.

"Old tree farm," Sam said. "Lumber company."

About a quarter mile later they entered a large clearing, a large circle about three to four hundred yards across, bordered by a high fence. The gate ahead was open and Sam continued through, stopping near a cluster of buildings.

Martha activated her commpad and looked at it, tapping and swiping occasionally. Sam killed the engine and sat, looking the place over.

"Looks deserted," she remarked.

"He's usually the only one here," Sam replied, "except for a few security personnel. And they're well hidden. He knows we're here, so let's get out and see if he's inclined to greet us."

Exiting the truck they walked towards the nearest building, one of several large mostly featureless structures.

This one did have a pair of large glass doors in the center, and she noticed a row of windows on what was apparently a second floor, given the height.

"APMEX Engineering. What's that?"

"Probably nothing relevant to an outsider," Sam replied. "And it may be meaningless to insiders, except as an identifier of a location. I suppose..."

"Glad you could make it."

They hadn't heard the owner of the voice approach.

"Turn around slowly," Sam said to Martha. "Keep your hands away from your sides."

A man about Sam's age was holding a short black carbine in one hand, the barrel pointed at the ground. A holstered pistol was in a belt holster on his right side. He was wearing soft moccasins, but it bothered Sam that he hadn't heard him approach. The nearest cover was several yards away.

Something about this place. We were just standing here for a minute or so.

"You get around pretty quiet," Sam said.

"I'm part Indian," the man replied.

"Martha, this here is Myles Hickman. Part Indian, presumably why he's good at sneaking up on people."

"How do we know it's him?" Martha asked. "He looks like the photos, but if you've never met him..."

"If it's not him we're in big trouble," Sam replied. "What does your little friend say?"

Martha had taken a small commpad out of her pocket and was looking down at the screen.

"Nice to meet you, Mr. Hickman. Do you mind if I..."

"Not at all."

She moved to one side of and behind him, took a small wand from her pocket and passed it over his shoulders, then looked down at the pad.

"How much more stuff you got in there?" Sam asked.

Martha smiled and put the wand and the pad away.

"Not much. I suppose not too many men meeting his description have two pieces of metal in their back, left side, about six inches apart. The one towards the center slightly lower."

"Not that they'd know where to put them," Hickman said, "if they knew they were there."

"Your dossier says you got those at the Greenfield fracas," Sam said, "but it didn't give the precise locations. We got that from our Atlantean friends."

"Some friends," Hickman replied. "And the Indian part is pretty small, a great grandmother. Unless the Atlantis folks have dug up something else."

"Actually they did," Martha said. "Turns out another one was part Indian, on your father's side. So you're one-eighth and one sixteenth, or something like that."

"Nice to know. Well, if the scrap metal checks out, we might as well get on with it. You want to come in and sit a spell?"

"Lead the way."

They followed him to the doors and waited as he pressed some keys on the lock. A yellow light began flashing and he pressed some more, and the light turned green. He opened the right hand door and held it.

"After you."

They entered a large lobby about thirty feet wide and twenty deep. In the center a counter about ten feet so wide was centered a few feet from the wall. Four chairs were evenly spaced behing it. To either side was a wide doorway. A man emerged from each one at the same time, as if they had been waiting for a cue.

Both were relatively young, Martha guessed mid to late twenties, and were wearing the near ubiquitous uniform of rebels everywhere - khaki trousers and shirt, long sleeves and two flapped pockets, a military-style web belt and in this case black combat boots.

She looked for the telltale clues that might or not be there, depending on the situation.

There. Left lapel, round turquoise pin, about a half inch. Nothing more.

"All set," the one on the left reported. "Will there be anything else?"

"Just secure the outside area," Hickman replied, "and stay here. What's the setup?"

"We've got the Blue squad deployed here, with Red and Green encircling us."

"Excellent. We'll be a while, but we'll leave before dark."

"Very good, sir."

"This way," Hickman said, leading them to the right hand corridor.

It was long and the he opened a door near the end. It was large and the only furnishings were a large conference table with a dozen chairs and a large sideboard. Both the table and chairs resembled those found in the businesses that spent a lot of money on image, and seemed out of place in the bare room with concrete block walls and a bare concrete floor.

"Grab a seat and we'll make medicine," Hickman said, "unless you want a snort of medicine first."

"Thought you'd never ask," Sam said. "I'm partial to Wild Turkey myself, but ain't picky."

"How about you, Martha? Sam didn't bother to introduce you, but I'm guessing he used your right name."

"Excuse my manners," Sam said. "This here is Special Agent Martha McElroy."

Hickman walked over to the sideboard and opened a door.

"We got cold beer and wine in the cooler over there, and a decent selection of hard stuff here. Including Turkey, which probably ain't easy to find back in your usual area of operation. That why you get over here so much?"

"Easy enough with my connections," Sam replied, "but the average joe finds everything hard to get. The big dogs do all right, plenty of dirty dealing on both sides."

"Most of what goes out from is ain't dirty," Hickman said. "A little, but most of it's planned. And even the dirty ones, we know about, use them."

"I believe you. Most of it's our people doing the buying anyway, you're not short on anything."

"Well," Hickman said, "we're not getting any drinking done talking about it. What'll it be, Martha?"

"Brandy's fine, if you have some."

She didn't drink much hard liquor, but the idea of sipping wine with these two didn't seem appealing. What was it Sam called them, white wine sippers.

"Lessee, nothing fancy," Hickman said. "Got some E&J and Christian Brothers."

"E&J is fine."

Hickman poured a glass for her and another for himself. Sam helped himself to the Wild Turkey.

"Alright," Hickman said, "let me get a smoke going and see what you got. I already figure on what it is."

He opened a foil pouch of cigars and extracted one, offered it to Sam, who took one.

"Cherry Vanilla," he said. "I guess you can still get them at gas stations here."

"I quit smoking high-dollar cigars a long time ago," Hickman replied. "High-dollar whiskey too."

"Yeah. Some reason I still got a thing for the Turkey." Sam said.

"Yesterday when you crossed over," Hickman said, "my man in Abilene said they weren't too happy about the attention. Your people know you're here, and they think they know why. And you brought a sidekick with, excuse me for saying it, no business being behind the lines."

"Martha is staying," Sam said.

"What?" Martha exclaimed.

Hickman grinned, said nothing.

"You must have wondered why I brought you," Sam said. "You've been burned. They were close to getting approval to have you eliminated. I had to get you out, and was lucky they let me take you. Word hadn't gotten to the right people, or they wouldn't have. I couldn't tell you until you were safely out."

"Burned? How?"

"You were always under suspicion, or at least scrutiny, just for being my partner. They know I'm a double agent, or believe I am. I'm too useful to liquidate at this point, but the time will come. I've still got a couple of things up my sleeve though. You don't."

"Did you clear it with Abilene?" asked Sam.

"Not yet. No time. I was hoping you could help if necessary."

"That's not why you're here," Hickman said.

"Nope. That just went down as we left. I figured you'd know. Some of it at least."

"Something to do with Crystal Sabre?"

"Pretty much. I figured you knew something about it."

"Where do I figure in? Seems our enemy is planning another unconventional solution. Like anyone expects it to work. Desperate and stupid, a bad combination."

"No argument there," Sam said. "But sometimes, as they say, a blind squirrel finds an acorn now and then. And deliberately or not, they seem to be interested in you." "When were they not?"

"Long time. But whether putting Walter Bloomfield in a conspicuous position, might be bait."

Martha looked at Hickman, saw the brief change in his expression at hearing Bloomfield's name.

Suddenly he laughed.

"This is gettin' to be too much fun," he said. "They way they're tied up in knots, it could mean that. Or nothing, or they might be liquidating him. If we cross paths he'll be liquidated all right."