Fear

It's been a while but I must continue my pursuit.  Why? Well, as it turns out, I have written the most compelling, provocative and entertaining stories that has been written in a long time.  Blood? Plenty and all violent scenes are those you have never seen before.  Sex? Oh baby.  Detailed but not pornographic.  Meaningful but not over done.

Besides all the exciting things above, it's a story about people appreciating their fellow humans.  People being helped by other people be they lovers, friends and sometimes strangers.

The whole darn thing is somehow sown into the seam of a baseball.  Baseball is the underlying theme and carries the story throughout.  Let me know what you think at andyweitz3@gmail.com. 

Chapter 3-FEAR

 

No matter how satisfying his work was as an ATF leader, Bob needed the avenue of escape and relaxation of baseball.  At 44, in top physical condition and with the spirit of a 20-year-old, he was still good enough to play with the 30-year-olds in the local “ Over-30 Baseball League”.  

     During the last couple of years, however, age was starting to take its toll.  He no longer was a starter.  His fastball no longer had quite the zip it once did and although he could still hold his own with the bat, he had lost that extra step in the outfield and running around the bases.  His role as a player had been reduced to part-time first basemen and closing relief pitcher.

     He was known as “ Mr. Clutch “ for his legendary prowess of shutting down the opposing hitters in the final moments of a game he was called in to protect.  He no longer had his once-prominent fastball but still had his control and, of course, his strategic mind.  Pitchers in any league have been known to survive far beyond their expected years with just those two attributes.

     Bob was probably most valuable to the team as the manager of the club, the team-appointed skipper.  His experience and brilliant strategy made him one the players always went to for leadership, consultation and inspiration.

     It was the end of the 1995 season and, as usual, Bringston’s team, the Braves, were playing in the championship game.  This one, however, was more important than usual since Bob knew this was likely going to be his last with the younger players.  Next year he was ready to move up with the old geezers in the 40 and older league as a win here would be most coveted. 

     The game was supposed to be on Saturday, but it rained heavily in L.A. the entire weekend.  Summer rains in Los Angeles were quite rare, but not out of line with the strange climate pattern in the area over the past few years.  Mild summers with rain, harsh winters, including the rarest of rarities, snow in the heart of the San Fernando Valley.  The climate had been such to expect the most unexpected. 

The game had to be played on the following Monday morning since it was the only day the field was available for many weeks.  As difficult as it was to get 30+ men in the prime of their professional careers to take a weekday afternoon off to play ball, most of them, including Bob, were not going to miss the big game.

A big crowd turned out for the game and Bob was pumped up for his last hurrah with the youngsters.  He instilled the same positive spirit into his teammates. The game turned out to be a pitcher’s duel.  Bringston did not go into the game as he felt it best to save himself for needed relief in the last innings.  With Bringston’s team leading 2-1 and the Braves pitcher showing signs of tiring, Bringston started to warm up in the 8^th inning. It was a moment he was looking forward to as much as he could ever remember.  There were runners on second and third with one out.  The number 3 hitter was up for the opposition who hit from the left side of the plate and led the league in hitting.  In addition, he rarely struck out.  Normally right-handed pitchers like Bob don’t do as well against left-handed hitters because their curve ball breaks towards the hitter.  Bringston though usually throws a screwball for his breaking pitch which curves the opposite way as a curve ball and thus, away from a left-hander making it more difficult for him to hit. 

Bob stepped out onto the field, confidently climbed the hill and put his palm out for the ball. The Brave pitcher gladly handed it over, as he knew he was done.

“Nice job, Tom.  I’ll close it up from here,” said Bob. 

Bob then begun the somewhat odd ritual that every pitcher performs when he first comes into the game.  Bringston manicured the pitcher’s mound to his liking by moving dirt around with his feet and stomping it into place to secure it down.  He then moved to a different area of the mound and dug up more dirt with his spikes and rearranged that earth. Ask any pitcher why he performs this strange protocol and he probably couldn’t explain it.  The best explanation is territorial.  A pitcher must portray the most menacing image as possible to the hitters.  Tearing up the mound and molding it to his liking when he arrives is the pitcher’s way of establishing his territory and letting the hitters know he controls it. 

From the moment he plants himself on that mound, every move Bob makes is designed to advance his physical and psychological dominance over the hitter.  Bringston took a few warm up pitches and as the hitter stepped into the batter’s box, Bringston stepped off the mound on to the grass and stared out to centerfield with his back to home plate.  As he did, he mixed up as much mean as he could muster.  Although standing there for just a few seconds, the impatient batter wondered if the old guy was ever going to turn around and pitch.  He had faced Bringston once before but didn’t recall this little psychological game.  The hitter thought it was nonsense and made him dig in even more.  The umpire and most of the members were not surprised.  This was typical Bringston behavior to fire himself up.  As expected, he abruptly pivoted around, charged up the mound and stood erect upon the pitcher’s rubber, the six-inch by twenty-four-inch rubber rectangle from where the pitcher begins his delivery to the batter.  This was likely Bob’s last thirty-year-old caliber ball game and today he was going to let everything fly.  He glared at the hitter with the look of a crazed killer.  The hitter seemed unfazed by Bob’s antics and stepped into the batter’s box without hesitation. 

Bringston went into the stretch and paused.  He stared at the runner at third and peered back at the runner on second.  Just like his approach to life and baseball, his windup was simple and straightforward.  He brought his hands to his waist and delivered.  It was a fastball with such velocity that it left Bob’s hand low but by the time it traveled those sixty feet six inches and crossed the plate it rose significantly.  The hitter swung and his bat must have been six inches below the actual path of the ball.  He hadn’t thrown a fastball like that in years and given the age of his arm and rest of his body, he doubted he would able to do it again on this day. 

As Bringston prepared for the next pitch, he noticed the hitter placing himself in the batter’s box nearly on top of the plate.  He likely got a scouting report about Bob’s screwball and was looking for an edge to make that screwgy less effective.  Since that pitch breaks away from a left-handed hitter, standing close to the plate gives the batter a better chance of hitting the pitch before it tails away. 

It was time for Bob to send a clear unequivocal message regarding who controlled the mound and home plate.  No words needed here.  All that was necessary was a ball or two toward the hitter’s ear or otherwise threatening his head. 

Bob concentrated more on the location of his next pitch than the speed. He certainly didn’t want to hit the batter but it had to be close enough to make him think.  He whirled and threw one hard, high and tight.  It was not a pitch known as “chin music” in baseball vernacular.  It was more like a “bow tie”.  It might or might not have hit the batter in the neck, but the batter had no interest in standing still to find out.  As the ball sped towards his head, he bent over backwards so suddenly and so fast, he fell over flat on his butt outside the batter’s box. As he got back on his feet, he looked directly into the eyes of Bringston with a smirk indicating he was not about to concede anything. 

It was that classic battle between pitcher and batter that went right to the core of the utter fascination of baseball.  It was like a showdown hand in poker.  Who was bluffing?  Who would dare to call the other’s bluff?  Who, if either, would be the first to yield?

Based upon where the batter placed himself in the box for the next pitch, he didn’t appear to be backing down one iota.  He stepped right back up crowding the plate though his location was a shade further back than previous.

Bob, of course, had the significant advantage in this clash of control.  He held the ball and with his pinpoint control was the sole determining factor as to where it was going. He stepped off the mound to think about the next pitch he was going to serve.  It was one ball and one strike.  If he walked this guy, it wouldn’t be tragic but on the other hand, the clean up hitter was a righty and overall a tougher out than the present hitter.  Would it do any good to brush the batter back again or was it time for the screwgy?  He needed the consultation of Johnny Fenster his catcher.  The two exchanged ideas on how to approach the hitter.  Only in baseball does one ever see two players standing in the middle of the playing field in the midst of the game having a conference.  There is no official time limit for the meeting because baseball is the only major team sport where time is not an issue.  Theoretically, a baseball game could go on forever.  There are plenty of borders, boundaries and restrictions but time is not one of them.  The umpire’s patience though is limited.  As he walked up to Bob and Johnny to break it up, Johnny gave his final advice. 

“Throw him a fastball Bob, but make sure it’s inside of the black, right on the hands.  At this point, we can’t afford to give him anything good to hit.  Depending on his reaction, then come in with either the screwgy or the palm ball,” said Johnny.

Bob was one who was not too proud to take instructions when they made sense.  What Johnny said had a good ring to it and he got up on the rubber ready to deploy the plan.  The fastball was placed just where Bob wanted it.  It was right on the hitter’s hands and would have tied up most.  This batter though was determined.  He took an exaggerated step to the outside with his front foot that opened up his body to the ball and allowed him to take a full swing.  He belted that baseball.  He crushed that cowhide.  It was a screaming line drive hit deep to right and had it not been few feet foul would have easily cleared the home run fence.  

Bob was amazed that anyone could have hit that pitch given the tight inside location.  He couldn’t remember ever gaining more respect for a hitter than this one.  With one ball and two strikes, he knew the batter was expecting a screwball.  It mattered not to Bob that the hitter continued to “cheat” by standing close to the plate.  It was time for the palmball. 

The palmball is a pitch held with all four fingers and the thumb around the ball and placed in back of the hand.  It is one of the most deceptive pitches around in that it is thrown with the same motion as a fastball but travels ten-twenty miles per hour slower.  With the hitter all wired up and previously exposed to nothing but fastballs, this was the perfect situation to “pull the string”.  The moment it left Bringston’s hand, the hitter knew the pitch was like no other.  He seemed to adjust for the slower speed but wasn’t ready for the other feature of Bob’s palm ball that doesn’t work all the time but on this day was near magic.  As the ball reached the plate, it dropped severely, as if the bottom fell out of it.  As the hitter lunged at the slow-moving sphere, the ball sank well below his bat as he swung and missed for strike three.  As the batter walked back to the dugout, he tipped his hat to Bringston.  Bringston tipped his hat back.

So now it was two down, two on, with the tying and go ahead runs in scoring position and stepping up to the plate was 41-year old Augusto Diaz.  He and Bob were the only 40-year-olds in the 30-year-old league, faced each other on numerous prior occasions and, over the years, gained immense respect for each other.  Bob knew that Diaz was a pure hitter and a free swinger.  He was a classic bad ball hitter who often got his hits off pitches way out of the strike zone.  Bob was also aware that Diaz was a thinking hitter who more often than not predicted the pitch that was coming, enabling him to adjust for a full swing at the ball.  Augie respected Bringston most for his strategic mind.  By far, Bob was the most difficult to outguess as to forecasting what pitch was on its way.  Somehow, Augie managed to hit .316 against Bringston over the years.  Since he couldn’t predict what pitch was coming from Bringston, Augie’s strategy of always swinging at the first pitch had proved successful. 

     As Bob stood on the mound and Augie in the batter’s box, the battle of wits accelerated.  Augie closely followed the at bat before him.  He noticed that Bob never threw the prior hitter the screwball.  He was ready for any pitch but prepared for this pitch.  That approach played right into Bob’s strategy.  He knew Diaz was smart enough to pay strict attention to the prior hitter and would likely be expecting and anxiously awaiting a screwball.  The fastball was too risky especially on the first pitch.  The free-swinging, first-ball-hitting Diaz would likely get around on the fastball even if he put one well off the plate.    He also had a slider in his arsenal but it tended to hang at times and wasn’t his best pitch.  That left the palm ball.  It was usually not thrown on the first pitch but as a change up after a series of fastballs and sliders.  Given the hitter and the situation, Bob thought it was the perfect time for the pitch.

     Bringston placed the ball in the back of his palm with all four fingers and his thumb surrounding the ball.  He went into his windup and didn’t reveal the ball in his hand until the moment before release.  It was as if Bob had slammed on the brakes on the ball after his release as Diaz awkwardly swung for the ball and lost his balance.  He did manage to hit the ball on the end of the bat as it rolled slowly to the second baseman.  Ten years ago, Augie would have beat this one to first, but at this stage in his life, the ball beat him to first as the memory of his baseball-playing days began to fade into dust.  

     Bob ran into the dugout after he saved his team from disaster and got pats on the back and high fives from all his teammates.  The whole squad was trouncing around the dugout like a bunch of twelve-year-old little leaguers.  Bob felt like a million.  He couldn’t wait to get back on the mound in the final game to save it for the championship.

     Just before the beginning of the 9^th though, his special government-issued pager went off.  The number and code following it meant only one thing:  He was being ordered to report in to the ATF central office for immediate assignment without delay. It was a dilemma he dreaded facing, but one that was in the end no contest.  Baseball was the constant, always accessible in some fashion.  If not a full-blown game, one could always play catch with a buddy, go to the batting cage, or, as Bob did all day and night, toss a baseball around to himself.  In some form or another, it was always there.

     The nation’s security, on the other hand, seemed continuously on the brink of being lost, especially to domestic terrorists.  It was a delicate balance that Bob was obligated to protect.  More importantly, the spreading slaughter of innocent individuals across the land had made Bringston more determined to defend those lives. It was also, of course, the safe thing to do. 

His entire life, Bob had often chose the seemingly safe route as opposed to what his heart may have been telling him was right.  He lived his entire life always going after the sure thing rather than what his true desires told him otherwise.

     The fact is, there was one aspect of Bob Bringston that had remained with him since he was a young lad.  It was a fear not, ironically enough, of the barbarous, brutal killers he faced on a regular basis. Death was just part of his job and he was ready to face the ultimate challenge head on everyday he went to work.  It was a fear of losing or more aptly, failing. Learn from it as he has over the years, the big hero was often reduced to a small, helpless child not so much from failing itself but by the fear of such failure.  It was only his determination and powerful inner strength that pulled him out of it.

     His life experience also helped as he had learned that his fear of failure was usually, if not always, ill founded.  He either often did not end up failing or his failures had proven to be something from which to be learned.

     Bob was raised by two Russian immigrants who lived through the Great Depression and World War II, two of the most harrowing and insecure times of the 20^th Century.     His father was an overly critical and blunt patriarch who did not put up with any challenges to his authority.  If, in his eyes, his son was not stupid or incompetent, he was a liar.  He had an unreasonable and uncontrollable temper that he violently displayed against not only Bob but also his two brothers and his mother.    The contribution of Bob’s mother was to seed the clouds of negativity created by his father by constantly expressing her dissatisfaction with whatever Bob may have accomplished in his life.

     When Bob was 12 years old, he proudly told his parents of a science project he had entered in the 6^th grade Science Fair.  It was a display of the properties of kinetic energy and Bob worked on the project into the wee hours of the night for many weeks.  He invited his mother and father to school later that week to see what he thought was a grand scientific accomplishment.  He also informed them that out of two 6^th grade classes comprised of 63 students, he finished second in the fair.

     “Hold it stupid, you didn’t win? I’m not embarrassing myself,” his father mocked him.

     As was typical in his growing years, his father’s words pierced through his heart and left him with a deep, dark and heavy feeling over his whole body.    His mother, always one to jump on the bandwagon of pessimism, was not far behind to drive the already crushing blow even deeper.

     “Honey, when you get first prize, me and your father will be proud to go.”

     Though he never let anyone see it from the outside, that desert of despair and pure, unmitigated emotional pain has stuck with Bob Bringston to this day.  Dark, deep, but always there.  He irrigated it with a stronger self-confidence, but it is the fear of returning to this emotionally barren state that continued to plague him decades later.

     The most serious long-term damage of this apprehension occurred in 1974, the year Bob graduated from Arizona State.  He finished as the top mechanical engineering student at the university and was recruited by companies ranging from small, local outfits to heavy hitters like Boeing, Goodyear, and General Electric. In addition, nearly a dozen major league baseball teams pursued him for not only his raw baseball talents, but also his reputation as a fierce competitor who ate nails and spit fire.

     Finally, the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms and other U.S. government agencies were conducting an aggressive recruitment on the ASU campus.  Though hundreds of miles from home in Los Angeles, Bob heard the voice of his father loud and clear.  If he took a position at GE, or even the smaller companies and failed, he just couldn’t bear the barrage of ridicule he knew he would get from the old man.  His mother would make it worse.

     His love for baseball was what he really wanted to pursue, but despite his immense self-confidence in his abilities to make it to the Big Show, his engineering mind and the fear of failure prevailed.  Making it as an engineer was certainly doable.  The odds of any young man, no matter how good, making it to the major leagues were long indeed.

     He decided upon what he considered a compromise.  He opted for the wild and risky world of federal law enforcement. Though he has enjoyed his nearly 20 years as an ATF agent, the possibility, the probability that he could have been serving up his heat to major league hitters and otherwise surrounding himself in the magnificent world of baseball, has gnawed at him over the years like a slow-growing tumor. Bob knew that he certainly could not ignore his ATF obligations merely for some amateur baseball game, but this small dilemma reminded him that his chance to immerse his life in baseball had long ago passed him by.  Each day he grew older drove that knife in, cutting a little piece of him away on each turn.

     When Bringston called in to the ATF office he learned of the delicate situation awaiting him.  A group called Whack had taken over a federal courtroom in downtown Los Angeles.  The militants were not only devoted to the typical anarchical principals of eliminating all laws, bureaucracies and other aspects of government, they were determined to start their elimination process by violently destroying the court system and anyone connected with it.

     In the past few years, the group had kidnapped and murdered judges, bailiffs, court clerks and other court staff with a powerful arsenal of guns and explosives and did so, at times, in suicidal fashion. When Bringston arrived at the courthouse, he was greeted by Tim Tuttlehorn who briefed his buddy on the situation. There were three enemies in the courtroom.  Shots had been fired, apparently wounding 3 U.S. Marshals. The terrorists had not yet made any demands except their safe exit of the courthouse which, given their prior modus operandi, they will guarantee with a hostage.

 During the exchange of fire with the U.S. Marshals, Frank Ganji had managed to infiltrate the courtroom held hostage appearing to be nothing more than a member of the press covering the trial being held there.  In actuality, ATF agent Ganji was armed with a .45 caliber handgun, just knawing at the bit for his opportunity to deposit some of his lead in the heads of the crazed courthouse kidnappers. There were 4 other federal agents on the government court-rescue mission.  Two were from the FBI and the 2 others from the Drug Enforcement Agency.

     “Strange,“ Bob thought to himself. “The DEA almost always avoided these types of high-profile operations”.  It was true that Whack had managed to stockpile a rather large cache of arms financed by a sizable drug smuggling operation, but the DEA’s success was built upon undercover  methods.  Even stranger, these guys came all the way from the DEA Washington office. 

     Whatever the reasons, Bringston had to work with the team he was given.  The six government agents met in the courthouse hallway to decide on their plan of attack. Bob, who was usually appointed the leader of these types of hostage situations with little, if any, objections, ran into strong resistance from DEA agent Dick Greer.  Bob knew that the key to winning these confrontations was a heavy element of distraction.  He was dressed in his full baseball uniform, including his maroon Atlanta Braves cap, dark gray maroon-trimmed jersey with white pants, navy blue stirrup socks and a sleek-looking black vinyl warm-up jacket.  Since Bob had only played less than an inning, he still sparkled in is uniform like it was Opening Day.  The only dirt scattered around his celebrative attire was residue from the dirt of the diamond.  The magic baseball dust seemed to enhance Bob’s comfort and confidence. 

     Ganji was already inside and armed.  Bob explained that he was confident that he can create enough diversion by his looks and his speech to give Frank the opportunity he needs to bring the kidnappers down.

     “Forget it, pretty boy,” Greer said firmly.  “We’re not going to risk the success of this operation on the silly baseball games of ATF.”

     “Spoken like a true territory protecting, glory-seeking government bureaucrat,“ Bob thought to himself.  He played into those motivations perfectly.

     “Look, Dick, you know a lot more about drug smugglers than we do.  I think you’d agree, though, that these guys are not the sort you typically run into.  My team has had a lot of encounters with similar hostage situations in the Midwest and here in L.A.  What do you say we put our heads together and secure the situation?”

     Once again, the Bringston charm and charisma paid off.

     “Five minutes, Bringston,“ Greer conceded.  “Your man Ganji is already equipped with a miniature mobile listening device, so if we hear that it is time to come in before that, we’re coming in.”

     “Fair enough,“ Bob agreed with all confidence and fire of a closing relief pitcher to whom the manager has just given the ball.

     Bob entered the courtroom and was greeted by the proverbial goon guards who searched him from head to toe.  He had a baseball in his pocket and one in his hand, both of which were confiscated by the guards. One of the goon’s eyes lit up when he saw a bag of hard-to-find barbecue flavored sunflower seeds protruding from Bob’s jacket pocket. 

“Hey, pal,” Bob coaxed, you won’t find these many places,” said Bob as he flashed the bag of seeds to the rebel.  “Check it out.  They’re Jim Beam Kentucky Bourbon soaked sunflower seeds. You can have them if you get your boss to release the hostages and the rest of the courtroom.”

“Say Jimmy, do we really have to hold this place any longer?” the big guy asked the leader of the revolutionary group. 

“Oh, Jeez, Chuckie, you need a little snack, do ya?” Jimmy asked sarcastically.  He proceeded to handcuff the terrified judge to the raised rail and walked down towards Bringston.    It was not the first time they had met. Over the years, terrorist leader Jimmy Borskovich had clashed with Bringston before.

     “Gimme that shit,” demanded Borskovich as he grabbed the rare sunflower seeds from Bringston’s pocket and threw them at the overly salivating Chuckie.

     “Hey Bobby, I got some bad news for ya. I’m pullin’ you out of the lineup.  We’ve got your balls, so no more of your little tricks,” Borskovich boasted as he walked back up to the elevated judge’s bench next to his hostage.

     “Tricks?” asked Bob. “ I give up a huge opportunity to be the closing reliever to win a championship in my fading baseball career, all to meet up with a dick like you?” Bob roared.

He caught the eye of Frank Ganji seated in the audience who gave him a comforting grin. Bob calmly took off his warm-up jacket and strolled right up to the bench where the judge was being held hostage.  Bringston moved around the courtroom like a lawyer passionately arguing a monumental trial in court.

“And then you have the fucking nerve to compare the great American Pastime to trickery.  You just don’t see the light,“ Bringston preached.

With the entire courtroom standing in amazement of the power of his words, Bob flung his jacket up to the bench.  It landed directly on Borskovich’s head completely disorientating him.

Bob was right behind his jacket as he leaped to the bench.  He tackled and subdued the terrorist before Borskovich could remove the jacket and get his bearings.  The judge, pursuant to Bob’s instructions knelt underneath the bench.  Bringston had Jimmy down on the floor behind the massive wall of wood making up the judge’s bench protecting him from the guards at the entryway.

Before they created any problem for Bringston, Ganji sprung up within the court audience and blasted a large chunk of one guy’s head half way across the courtroom. Ganji’s high-powered artillery exchange with sunflower seed sucking Chuckie while Bringston was wrestling Borskovich under control did not work out so well for Frank.  Ganji received some serious chest wounds from Chuckie.

In the meantime, Bob managed to secure his jacket around the leader’s head with a rubber band he found on the judge’s desk.  Fortunately, Jimmy had left another set of handcuffs on the desk which he used to secure Borskovich to the short stairway banister leading up to the judge’s chair. 

The gun Jimmy was holding was nowhere in sight and Bob sensed there was at least one enemy remaining.  He was laying fox-hole style on the floor.  He looked behind him and inches from his feet stood the California flag perched upon a flagpole with a large triangular, metal ornament at the top.  At its zenith, it came to a rather sharp arrow-like point.

Bob peaked around the right side of the bench and saw Chuckie cautiously approaching where Bringston had staked out. Bob wasn’t sure if the other bad guy was still alive but he simply had to take the chance.

Bringston grabbed the flagpole, vaulted up and, with his ballistic arm, hurled the flagpole in the direction of the opposition and then quickly kneeled back down for cover. The California Golden Bear never took a more majestic flight.  The piercing-pole headed straight for Chuckie.  Before he realized what was targeting him, he fired a few errant shots at Bringston.

Bob was pretty close to his aim.  He compensated for the scientific fact that his spear would drop below the point parallel with his release point.  The makeshift arrow punctured the cultist smack dab in the center of his chest.  The power of Bob’s thrust behind it, pushed his attacker into the wall, pinning him like one secures a note to a bulletin board. 

Bob peered around the bench and proudly observed the results of his spectacular “javelin“ toss.  The hole in the bad guy’s chest was so large; the flag attached to the penetrating pole was drenched in red with blood dripping from the lower corner of the flag.   He also saw the third terrorist lying face down in a large pool of blood.  Old Ganji, “ Mr. Reliable” came through in the clutch once again. 

The madness in the Halls of Justice had finally ended.  But where was his loyal friend Frank Ganji?  Bob got up and frantically went to where his old buddy was sitting.  He found Frank seated on the floor with his back against the audience bench with a dazed look on his face and his entire upper torso doused in deep red from his profuse bleeding.  Bringston called an ambulance.

“Rest easy, Ganj, help is on the way, “ Bob assured his beloved friend.

“I’m afraid it’s going to be too late,“ Frank strained to tell Bob. This is it buddy. I sure went out in style, though, huh?  I must have separated that one guy’s face right from his skull,” Frank proudly proclaimed with his quite obviously final breaths as Bob smiled affectionately.

Bob rested Frank’s head in his arms.  He sensed these were his best friend’s last moments.

“We sure had great times together, huh Bobby?“ Frank whispered.  “Ball games, chasing women, fightin’ bad guys.  I’ll miss you, brother.”

Frank warmly smiled at his loyal friend.  Bob lovingly smiled back.  It was the last thing Frank saw before he died in Bob’s arms. The sense of loss in Bob’s heart was devastating.  He had just lost a most cherished life-long companion.  A genuinely good man who, on countless occasions, like this one, risked his life to save his comrades, America, and her values.

The most empty, desolate feeling suddenly came over Bob as the magnitude of the pain consumed him.  Motionless, frozen, without a thought in his mind except that he lost someone he deeply and truly loved.  Bob stayed in the kneeling position with Frank in his arms until the paramedics arrived. 

The small flow of tears from each of his swelling eyes met at his chin and slowly, painfully dripped onto Frank’s body.  Just then the FBI and DEA agents stormed the courtroom and took custody of Borskovich who was still handcuffed to the judge’s bench.  Minutes later, the coroner arrived for Frank’s body and the two dead terrorists.  Bob just sat in the courtroom withdrawn and numb to his surroundings.  How, he thought, will he ever get over living and working without his most dear friend?

As the government agents were whisking Borscovich out of the courtroom, the rebel stopped in his tracks when he reached where Bringston was sitting.

“Marsh really sent his best out for this one didn’t he?  Well, you can tell the Director that he has double-crossed us for the last time,” Borskovich warned.  The agents then took him away.

Bob, though still distraught, was suddenly awakened from his deep withdrawal.  He hadn’t heard the name of his former mentor in years.  Was the crazy cultist actually referring to DEA Director Victor Marsh?  If he was, what in the world did he mean by Marsh had double-crossed him for the last time?

This mystery just had to be solved.  Bob vowed to investigate and research this baffling question as soon as he got over the grief of the loss of Frank Ganji.