Welcome to August.
Also welcome to the wind down of Fains I, and no, I don’t mean there’s only a few more chapters. This chapter 21, I finished (or began. it depends if I’ll be adding more to it as I continue on to other chapters) 41 this morning, and I have twelve more mapped out (meaning they contain major plot points, not that there’s only twelve more chapters to write. some chapters are included purely so readers can catch their breath).
What I mean by “wind down” is I’ll probably finish the novel this month and begin posts about something else next month.
Now, now. No crying. Fains I is already scheduled for release sometime mid to late 2026.
Seems odd to be even considering something roughly a year ahead/away/over there.
(and you may notice the last chapter in July was 20, the first chapter in August is 20. indicates there’s been a lot a’ work goin’ on)
Rhonda sat on her back balcony, a heavy crystal tumbler with a double single-malt in hand, one ice cube floating like a ship lost at sea, staring eye-to-eye with that damn hawk.
Damn thing followed her home and now perched in every tree around her house. It didn’t matter what room she went in, if there was a window and a tree outside that window, that damn hawk perched in it and stared in, waiting. Patiently waiting.
Was it illegal to kill hawks in Reston, Virginia? How about Maryland or West Virginia? Delaware, maybe? How about Pennsylvania.
Hell, it followed her home, maybe it’d follow her into another state.
She got into a staring contests with it. Fucking thing won every time.
Didn’t birds blink?
Rhonda blinked. She threw her tumbler. Missed the fucker by inches.
It didn’t move.
Didn’t blink.
Ah!
It wasn’t a bird, it was a Russian something. Her handlers finally figured out she was dicking them around and are using their own unknown tech. It’s not really a bird, that’s why it’s so large, even for a hawk.
That would explain that unnamed, untraceabke call, too. The Russians. Boy, what MARS wouldn’t pay to know the Russians had hacked their phone lines.
But how could she tell them without giving away her own doublecross of them. And just a few more payments and she could disappear, fall completely off th grid, and get to her little island hideaway.
She decided when she left New Hampshire she never wanted to be cold again. So far, so good. Even postings in far northern and southrn climes could be tolerated because she knew she had an out.
But that damn phone call scrweed everything.
Who was it?
What did they know?
Where did they want her to go?
Executre Pontiac?
The code instructing opeatices to destroy their weapons, burn all materials, basically raze their operating centrer, select an escape vector, and flee?
Who outside MARS would know about that?
Rhonda made her plan. Get a car, take nothing but what was on her back, go.
She went to her garage, pulled a tarp off a vintage Triumph Thunderbird, checked oil and gas, stripped and put on all black leathers including matching visored helmet.
She loved the quiet roar of the Thunderbird’s siamesed exhausts.
She bolted when her garage door was only halfway up, didn’t stop for lights, and went offroad at every opportunity.
That damn hawk flew square in her mirrors every time she checked.
She parked her bike in a long term garage at Washington-Dulles International, entered the main terminal, went to the nearest arrival luggage turnstyle, picked up a large, flourescent pink suitcase, and went into the ladies room.
Five minutes later a youngish, professional looking woman in low-cut heels, a light, floral print, pleated skirt with a white, billowing blouse, and immaculate makeup, came out sans suitcase.
She walked brusquely to the pickup/dropoff area, watched a man lift a travel trunk from the backseat, and escort a woman to a skycap. The man left his car running.
The woman got in and drove off. The man, the woman, and the skycap never noticed.
She took Rt267 northwest.
The hawk perched in a tree as she passed and took wing to follow.
She flipped it the bird and laughed at herself. “We’d pay real folding money to know the tech built into that thing.”
Several hours later she pulled into a service area for gas. The hawk perched in a nearby elm. “I’ll bet you can’t fly at highway speeds. Let’s find out, shall we?”
She took I66 to 81 to 64 into West Virginia.
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