Pool_2

running toward the Macaluso house. He was running by, in the street. Anybody that tired was not much danger, except for, perhaps, that quick Zee Zee wrist motion. That move was a problem. So was the lightening follow up knife thrust through his left eye into his brain. Marcus shook it as if opening up a stuck paint can, driving it even deeper. "You're done. Move over. The rats are dead," he thought a moment, then amended, "No. Some rats are dead. Who is the rat master?" His hands feeling large and heavy on the steering wheel, he was now all business, as he started up the Venture service car and eased it down the driveway and into the garage, into Mina's space. His stilled navigator was pulled from the vehicle to the garage floor with the other two. The trunk of their own car, emptied of its full array of electronics and tools, was the obvious cage for three dead rats. Inventory. The only question unresolved was what to do with it. This would be his second wandering in the desert, wandering with an unusual flavor. Some load. Rum banana did briefly cross his mind. Who'd buy this shit? His countenance darkened as he once again beheld the handle of that stiletto with its blade still wedged fully into the corpse's orbit. He muttered, in Latin, Chalybs, steel. Of what steel was he forged? Grasping the handle with its lightening bolt insignia, Marcus pulled mightily from that stone to behold the blade held upright, high, gleaming in the overhead light, dripping with inexplicable energy. "If I am Arthur, who is my Gawain?" Eternities passed in seconds, and then, reality - revived by the timed outage of the overhead garage door light. Who was he kidding, as he shook his head, "I need help." A back-up team? But the question was, "Who?" and, as important, who won't talk?