THREE QUEENS and six bullets TAKES ALL

Chapter 1

"Hey Fred, what are you going to do tonight. Want to go try the clubs

I'm going to bed.

Not now, find yourself a guy to do that with first.

No thanks Valerie, you and Donna go have your fun. I'm one tired puppy.

What have you been doing? Staking out money launderers again?

No, it's a counterfeiting case. No easy sit in a chair and track it by computer case this month. I've been tracking this bozo all over the area. He sure spends it like he prints it himself, since he does. At least I got to see the inside of all the swankiest places. The trail's gone cold now, we think he moved on.

Ah, such is the life we lead. I'm stuck on an arms dealer case that I can't even begin to crack. The guy never sets foot in the U.S, so I don't think we'll ever get him. Small fish is all we ever bust.

Oh, the life we've made for ourselves. I'm thinking of trying my hand at something else.

What?

When I figure that out, I'll be sure to let you know.

Please do. I'm fed up with the red tape too.

Aren't we all? Have fun.

Oh, you know we will.

Fred, actually Frederica Clark, is a field agent for the U.S. Treasury. Valerie is F.B.I. Donna is Homeland Security, formerly FBI. They're roommates. The government doesn't pay well enough that they could afford this small three-bedroom house separately, in the Maryland countryside, outside the DC area. Together, they do all right.

She takes off her service weapon, then puts it in the night table drawer. The puny nine-millimeter they make them carry on the job is all right for punching paper, but it often doesn't put the perp down with even a few hits, rarely ever with only one. This one is by Glock, but it's not the weapon, it's the low-powered caliber. Sure, if she shoots them in the head, it will usually put them down. That's not how they teach them to do it. They still teach body mass shooting, though a lot of the perps have better bulletproof vests than the Feds do.

One perp was so hard headed, a bullet to the head bounced off his skull. He bled a lot, but it didn't stop him. She wound up in the hospital for six weeks on account of that one.

Nowadays, her new backup weapon is really her first choice. It's a Sig-Sauer in forty-five Colt ACP. She places it on top of the nightstand.

As she undresses for a shower, Freddie considers the idea of doing something else for a living. Okay, what are my options? I could go into private security work … no, that probably isn't any better than what I've got now, and wouldn't allow me carry a weapon on most of the jobs I could get. I could become an investigator for some lawyer… no way I'd want to work for some shyster lawyer. If I could find one fighting for the little guy … no, then there would be no money in it. I've got to figure out something, the red tape is squeezing the life out of me like a damn boa constrictor. Hell, even when we make a solid case, the stupid prosecutors plea bargain it to nothing so they don't have to go to court … the lazy bastards. Just get it settled is all they care. Of course, the way the courts turn the perps loose on every little technicality, they're probably right, take what you can get easily, then go on.

Freddie steps into the shower. Soaping up her firm body, she runs her hands over the bullet scar on her side and wonders: How long can I stay at this before my looks are totally shot, or I am? That time was just screwy, I'm lucky the perp had blood dripping into his eyes, that made his aim not so good, but I damn near got killed anyway. I'll have to start making a serious effort to find something else. What that something might be, I have no clue.

Freddie steps out of the shower. She dries off with a very thick fluffy towel, a gift from her very practical yet impractical mother. Mother's gifts are always nice, yet useful. Dad is more likely to give her something totally impractical, but fun.

Mom's practical yet not frugal at all. Dad's impractical yet a bit of a tightwad. He's not tight all the time, he'll spend money when he wants to. Maybe it's only a way to balance out mother's way of spending more than necessary. The towels are a reminder of all of that. They're thick and fluffy, high quality, but expensive. Dad would buy something much less expensive, then spend the difference having some fun. I guess that's the thing, they work great as a couple, balancing each other's good and bad traits out. Someday, maybe I can find a man that is the Yin to my Yang. I hope he also happens to have a very nice Yin-Yang. Oh stop that, there's no man in your life, not even casually, to take care of this horniness. I hope I have fresh batteries on hand. The way things are going, I should find a plug in one … or invest in a company that makes batteries … yeah right, with what money.

Freddie pulls on her fancy, embroidered, plush robe to go to the kitchen. The robe is another of mother's practical but extravagant gifts. These days, Freddie would prefer the cash.

She makes a sandwich from some cold roast beef from a deli in DC. Damn, no horseradish sauce. I'll have to settle for Grey Poupon … damn we're out of that too. Whose turn was it to do the shopping this week? Damn, it was my turn, I forgot. I'll bet Donna and Valerie are ticked off. Maybe not, they eat so little at home, they probably haven't even noticed. Well … ketchup … yuck … mayo …not really … hot sauce…no that brand is too hot … plain it is then … oh maybe some ranch dressing, there's enough of that left for a sandwich, not enough for a good salad. That'll do.

Freddie has a Coke with her sandwich, rinses the plate and glass, then places them in the dishwasher. They're not dirty, but they basically just store the dishes they use everyday there. Cabinet space is at a premium in the kitchen, especially since there are three women's kitchen things in it.

None of them cook a great deal, but can and do on occasion. Their time being constrained by the jobs, none of them are too in love with the idea of spending time working in the kitchen after a hard day … or week's work. Sometimes, like this week for Freddie, they don't get home at all, if they do, it's only long enough for a bit of sleep and cleaning up. All three of these Federal agents keep bags packed stashed in their cars so they can be prepared to spend the night wherever the case leads them.

Freddie trudges off to her bedroom. Just as she's snuggling down in her bed, nude as usual at home, when her government-issue cell phone rings. This can't be good.

Hello?

Fred Clark please.

"This is Fred Clark, who the hell is this and why the hell are you calling me on my work phone?"

Excuse me, I must have got things mixed up. I'm Randy Hawkins, US attorney, calling for Fred Clark, the Treasury Field agent.

That's me, you asshole! What the hell do you want? You obviously don't know me, so I'm hanging up. Don't you dare call me again. Freddie hits the end button then turns the phone off. She places it in the charger.

Just as she's snuggling back down, their home phone rings … and rings. Damn it, somebody forgot to turn on the answering machine. I tried to tell them voice mail would be better, but it costs more than our basic service. Freddie lets it ring until it quits, then trudges out to the living room to turn on the answering machine. It didn't turn on because the tape is full. She flips the tape over, then resets it. She trudges back to bed. She pulls the comforter up over her tired body, snuggles in, then drifts off to sleep quickly.

Chapter 2

Freddie stretches and yawns. It's Saturday, she's made it clear to her supervisor, her partner, and everyone else at the office not to bother her this weekend. She's going to relax. It will be her first day off in three weeks, and her first weekend off in three months.

She decides that ten in the morning is long enough to laze around in bed. She'll get dressed, then go laze around somewhere else. Maybe there's an old movie on the AMC channel I can relax with.

Somebody has already made coffee, so she fills her big mug, then curls up on the couch. Unfortunately, there's nothing on she wants to see. Sometimes, their idea of classic movies seems strange to her. This mess they have on now isn't that old, definitely not a classic in any sense of the word.

She's mildly disappointed, but she's not going to let that ruin her day. She looks outside, it's a wonderful, warm spring day, much warmer than it's been for a long while. A perfect day for a ride, motorcycle ride, that is. A horseback ride would be lovely, but there's no place close to do that, we certainly can't afford to keep one ourselves.

Her jeans will work for the bike, but she won't wear the skimpy top she has on now, not by itself. She pulls on a T-shirt that she acquired when doing undercover duty. It's a biker T-shirt in the traditional black with saying on the front "This one's for you, accompanied by a picture of a female hand flipping the bird. It suits her mood perfectly today. She also grabs her badge, her Sig, and her wallet. She doesn't often carry a purse, unless it's to play a role. She thinks purses are basically stupid. If she has to carry much, she uses a small backpack. Except on the few dressy occasions that come up, usually they are for undercover work.

The badge and wallet go in the rear pockets, the Sig, in it's pancake holster, goes in the small of her back. The T-shirt hides it well enough, the jacket will hide it better. She snags her full face BMW helmet off the shelf in the closet. A quick wipe of both sides of the face shield is easy since on this helmet the entire front flips up, or detaches. She thinks she'll wear the entire thing today, it may get cooler later.

Fred treks out to the garage to disconnect the automatic battery charger from her BMW opposed twin 1000 cc bike. The motorcycle was a graduation gift years ago from her parents. It's one gift she truly appreciates.

The fun side, and the gas savings appealed to her father. The practicality of being able to slip through congested traffic, plus what was then a rather steep price for a motorcycle, appealed to her mother. All those features, plus the freedom it gave her, appealed to Freddie.

The bike fires right up, Stabil brand additives in the gas and oil when she parked it last kept it in good shape. It could probably use fresh plugs, but they might be all right after a good run.

Fred pats the bike as if it were a living animal, Well baby, it's just you and me, on the open road again. Lets party. She roars off down the drive, then turns left, not to the right towards DC. At this point, she doesn't know where she's going, only where she's not going, anywhere near DC.

For now, she rides through the countryside, enjoying the day and the ride. She stops at a small country-style convenience store to gas up the bike, check the oil, and the lights.

She buys a bottle of oil, and a Coke. She tops up the oil, then screws the lid to the bottle tightly, just in case, she puts the oil back in the plastic shopping bag, then wraps the rest of the bag around the bottle. A bungee cord inside her hard-side saddlebag holds it securely.

She remembers the first time she tried that. She didn't get the lid on tight, and had no bag around it. When the bike leaked oil all over her parent's driveway, she thought repairs were needed.

The shop that looked at it for her found the problem, but still charged her for looking. She knows better now. She's no mechanic, but she can do at least the basics, these days it's a necessity, since her funds don't allow for shop time for every little thing.

She makes a decision as she's drinking her Coke, she knows where she's going now. She tosses the empty bottle in the trash, then straddles the bike.

She takes the twists and turns required to get her over to highway 37. She takes that north, to where it meets Interstate seventy. She takes it west, hell bent for leather, slipping past the cars, the traffic is light today, at least at this hour. She flies right past a state trooper, not even bothering to slow down. If he can catch her, she'll badge her way out of it. It will be interesting to see if he tries, or simply radios ahead.

She doubts he got her plate, motorcycle plates are smaller, and she flew by him so fast he probably is still wondering what the hell it was. Either he didn't try, tried and couldn't do it, or radioed ahead, his lights are not flashing in her mirrors.

He radioed ahead, another state trooper takes out after her. There's no way any car can stay with a decent sized bike. She leaves him in the dust. Up the road a ways, two more try to take out after her, they can't do it either. That's a hell of a lot of troopers on this short stretch of highway. What the hell is going on, are they having a convention or something?

They may have her plate now, so if they try again, she'll pull over. She backs it down to the speed limit. Up ahead is a roadblock. Cars are backed up for miles already, so this roadblock can't be just for her. Speeding doesn't warrant this kind of attention. She slips up to the roadblock slowly, in the breakdown lane. A state trooper holds up his hand in a stop motion to her. As he walks up to her, she turns off the bike, and puts the kickstand down. She removes her helmet. The trooper seems surprised to see her red hair and pretty face.

You're the speed demon of the interstate? You'll have to wait here, some officers will be along that want to talk to you.

She pulls out her badge. I don't think so, Trooper Garrison, I'm in a hurry because I have to be someplace on a case.

Well, you've got a case right here. Call whoever, but we need a treasury agent.

I'm undercover, I don't have my cell with me.

Here use mine, then come take a look.

I'll look first, so I can tell them what the hell is going on.

Fine by me, walk with me.

Freddie walks with the trooper. The scene she sees is gruesome. A car and a long straight truck, probably a thirty-five footer, have collided head on. The remains of the car … whatever kind it was, are covered in blood. The cab of the truck isn't much better.

What the hell do you think happened here, Trooper Garrison?

We have reports of a drunk driver going the wrong way on the interstate near here. I think he's not going anywhere, anymore. Neither is whoever was in the truck. All three were dead at the scene.

Three?

Yeah, there were two … almost in the truck. They came through the windshield. Apparently, they didn't believe in seatbelts.

So, it's a traffic accident. What do you need me for?

Come see. They walk closer, the trooper leads her to the back of the truck. He opens the rear cargo doors. Inside are loose bills, they were probably in the boxes now tossed around. There is paper, plastic jugs of ink, and a printing machine, a RolloType six hundred. Various other equipment is strewn around in the back of the truck, but it's such a mess, Freddie would be hard pressed to say what it is.

Freddie climbs up and in to the truck. She scoops up a few of the loose bills. She looks at them closely. Damn, well I guess I'm not in a hurry anymore. This is the guy we've been trying to find. At least one of them is. I figure the other was a helper, or maybe somebody just hired to drive the truck.

Need my cell now?

I sure do.

Freddie punches in a number she knows by heart, her partner, Robert Thatcher, or Bobbie to her. Hey Bobbie, where are you? What the hell are you doing at the office? Oh, the damn paperwork. Well, I've got more for you. Get a truck and some guys out here on Interstate seventy. Hold on a sec … Trooper, what's the nearest mile marker?

We're just past one-fifty-two.

Did you hear that Bobbie? Just past one fifty two. You could just send an extra large size tow truck. Our counterfeiter had a big accident. Yeah, the plates, the bills, paper, ink, all of it. No, I wasn't after him, not directly. I was on my way to track down a hot lead, but this just popped up into my lap. Yeah, I know, but if it didn't pan out, I didn't want to bother you. Hell, I didn't want to bother myself, but sometimes snitches don't keep business hours. Yeah, it's secure, there's plenty of state troopers around, they'll keep an eye on it until the tow truck gets here. Yeah, later, bye.

Freddie hands the phone back to the trooper. He'll have a truck here to tow it away soon. I'm going on in to Frederick. I'll slow down, there's no need to hurry now.

Okay, do be careful. As this wreck proves, it may not be your fault, but it will be your funeral.

Gotcha. Later.

Freddie trudges back to her bike. Four big state troopers are standing around it, as if they're guarding it. You guys want to get the hell out of my way, or do I have to kick your candy asses first?

The biggest one puffs out his massive chest, You and what Army?

Fred shows him her badge, The entire United States Army if need be, but I don't think I need them for four muscle-bound jerks like you.

You're awful mouthy for a five foot-five inch woman that probably weighs one ten on a water retention day.

Trooper, show some sense, get out of my way. I'm not in the mood to toy with you.

I've got your toy right here, he grabs his crotch.

If you want to keep that tiny thing in working order, shut up and step aside.

No, you're getting a ticket, badge or no badge. I might haul you in, for the fun of frisking you.

Try it, smartass.

The trooper makes a dumb mistake, he reaches for her. Before he knows it, he's flying through the air. He lands on his back with a thud. The other three move to get her, they get