The Farmhouse

Two hours later, Bruce was on the road towards Salt Lake City, together with Jasper. Negotiating the Vega City ring road, took a good half an hour, but once Bruce hit the 15 heading north, they made the journey to Orange tree Valley in a little less than two hours. Bruce eased the vehicle through the gears, put on effortless bursts of speed, at times he tipped the meter at 160 kph. The road was mostly empty of other vehicles, and struck a solitary path through irrigated farmlands, interluded with patches of barren dessert plains.

There was a run-down settlement, just before the main village. Bruce slowed, whilst spotting a gas station, and just after it, an unmarked tarmac road, which seemed to disappear into the forest, that bordered the village. That forest had probably been an orange plant once, but left to its own devises, it had grown wild and unkempt.
"This should be it," he said, and Jasper grunted something in response. Turning down the road, which was littered with potholes, Bruce drove carefully and the vehicle began to get speckled with mud and grit.

The road bent left, and within half a mile, the unkempt orange trees began to thin and then disappear. They emerged from the woods, and became able to see their destination. Pulling into the roadside, Bruce turned off the engine. The road ran slightly downhill and, about three miles away, at the end of the track, an incongruous building sat in the centre of acres of flat land. It was a large multi-extended farmhouse, two stories high and ugly, designed to look like a Mexx estancia and painted an alarming shade of yellow. It was surrounded by a foot-high wall. There was no gate. There were no trees, no hedges. The land outside was arid and barren, having given in to the natural Nevada dessert, and the wind owned this place, bending the poor excuses for trees around and sending tumbleweeds across the sand plains. In places, cacti grew.

Opening his gun case, Jasper removed his sniper scope. Through the sight, he was able to inspect the house closely, telling Bruce what he was spying. There was a main front porch, which sat in the middle of four huge windows, each one flanked with white washed shutters. A double door garage occupied the right hand extension. Similar huge windows also lined the first floor, running across the middle and right hand sections. Four red brick chimneys, all of differing heights, stuck out of the black slate tiled roof. One of them was adorned with a huge, spikey antenna, attached half way up the stack. The left extension featured a series of smaller windows and a tradesman's entrance. That brick work was different and Jasper assumed this was probably the original building, now given over to a pantry, kitchen and stores. The first story was lesser in height, and the windows smaller still. It too looked to be constructed of different materials. Servants quarters, Jasper figured.

Twisting the scope, Jasper then focused closely on the window and door frames, noting the wires for a burglar alarm. The main windows were modern, much more so than anything else on the house, and tinted a deep musky brown. They were at least made of toughened glass, probably bullet proofed. He couldn't see inside. There was no front door bell.
"She's one private bitch," Jasper said, whilst he removed the scope from his eyes. "Doesn't expect people to come here."
"No," Bruce agreed. "She's probably does all her business from that bar in the Kasbah."

Meanwhile, Bruce had been regarding the house with his naked eye. There didn't seem to be anybody about. No cars. No dogs. Nothing. Jeyna Taylor was probably a lone wolf. As soon as his comrade had returned inside, he started the car, and drove cautiously down the track. The surface became increasingly bumpy. While avoiding even more pot holes, Bruce remained focused on the house in front of them. Still, there was no sign of activity.

However, it came when the car was no more than a hundred yards from the house. The tradesman's door opened, and a burly, dark-skinned man emerged. He wore black pants and a likewise black jacket, that was buttoned at the waist, and his hair fell in long, frowzy dreads down his shoulders. Sensibly the man wore farmer's boots and even at this distance, they could see the bulge of a huge revolver inside his jacket. Bruce slowed down, until the vehicle was only easing gently forward. The man walked purposefully towards the car, giving no indication of stopping. It was an old fashioned game of "chicken." Bruce lost and brought the vehicle gently to a halt.

"Who are you?" The man's voice was oddly shrill and wheezing, as if there was something wrong with his windpipe. Bruce wound down the window.
"We're lost. Perhaps a wrong turn, over at road 15."

The big man was uninterested. He indicated with his arm, that they were to turn around.
"This is private ground," he snapped in his high pitched voice.
"Pardon us then," Bruce lifted his hands from the wheel in an excusing gesture "We're leaving."

The stranger stood his ground, his expression didn't change. Leaning forward, Bruce peered through the grimy windscreen. The man raised his head, as if expecting a challenge, however none of the special agents made any move save for Bruce who was touching the steering wheel again. His eyesight flickered, from the watching man, to the windows and then the roof of the house. He stared for a few seconds too long. The man shouted a profanity, and slammed his fist down on the bonnet of the car. He barked a further order for Bruce to turn around. This time, Bruce complied, executing a five point turn on the tight track. As he performed the final maneuver, he made certain to reverse back too far, ensuring the big man had to step aside. He leaned over, peering through the open window.

"Sorry!" said Bruce with a smirk, staring straight into the man's dark-skinned face, before closing the window again. He could see the tiny earpiece and the thin communications wire, which ran behind the man's neck, and inside his sweater.
"Bastards!" growled the other man, and spat at the closing window. A saliva and mucus filled spray splattered against the glass. Bruce raised a smile, and eased the vehicle away up the track.
"Asshole," Jasper said under his breath. "What did we do him really?"
"Oh, you know, those backwater people," Bruce answered cheerfully. "Don't really know how to behave around people, as they hang with cows and pigs all day long."

Jasper snorted a short laughter whilst turning to watch the big man, who didn't retreat to the house, until the car had almost reached the tree line.
"Interesting little confrontation nevertheless," Jasper said. "Jeyna Taylor obviously has her minders. And a rough little lot they seem to be. So how do we lure the bitch from her lair?"
"We don't," Bruce replied. "I suggest we find somewhere down in the village to stay, and come back later tonight. For a bit of a break and entry."

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Pela was performing sit-ups in the hotel room, whilst Enola was telling about her and Sean's finding at the 'The Indigo Eye Tattoo Parlor'. Amanda however, was content with sitting on Pela's bed and listen to her colleague.
"What a strike of luck this time," she said, when she was done. "Figuratively of course," she added when she heard Pela's sarcastic laughter force itself between the heavy intakes of breath. "Yes, it felt quite a bit better after my fiasco at the casino the other night," Enola replied.
"Fiasco, what?" Pela stopped her sit-ups to eyeball her sister.

"We aborted it, you remember."
"But that wasn't your fault," Pela huffed. "Besides you did win, remember."
"It wasn't for real," Enola sighed, whilst staring at her fingers. "No real money involved from my side."
"Well, it was a victory of honor then," Amanda said. "If nothing else, you showed those people there, including our dear Secret Service, that you know how to play FiveHearts. And to play it well."
"Yeah, whatever good that does me," Enola replied.

"And then there's Sean," Pela went on.
"Sean Claude?" Enola asked in consternation.
"Of course, or is there anyone else with that name around?" her sister smirked as she stood up.
"Yes, but, what about him?"
"Now, you talk, as if you have a crush on him," Pela said. "Don't think you can fool me, big sister, I know just that look in your eyes, those pretty red roses appearing on your cheek right now. You could as well carry a board. Besides, something about your rendering tells me, it's sort of mutual."
"Pela, gimme a break, you weren't even there. You've taken my place in the library for Kel's sake."
"True, but Mandy did tell what Sean looked like. Your type right."

Enola groined at that, pulling a pillow from the bed and throwing it at her sister, who ducked and disappeared into the bathroom to have a shower. Instead the pillow landed on the second bed, beside Amanda who grinned with mirth.
"You told her what?" Enola asked. "That Sean was hitting at me?"
"Yes, wasn't he?"
"No, he was not!"
"But you wish he were?"
"Maybe you should just forget it, Mandy!"

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A terrible, sputtering racket emitted from the coffee machine, as the brown liquid poured down in the tiny, white cup. Slender, brown fingers reached for it, brought it across the small working area, and placed it in front of the man by the counter.
"Thanks," he said, facing the barista, an adolescent man, hardly more than a boy, with purple cornrows with silver pearls weaved into them. A coin was slid across the marble of the counter, the barista boy caught it, and let it disappear down in the till. The man lifted the cup to his full lips, taking a sip. The coffee was good, but that was not the main object for him to be here today. The main object laid opposite the street, a small shop which could be viewed through the large glass rectangle.

"Hey, you?" he asked and the barista looked up from cleaning the area around the coffee machine. They were the only ones in the dusky café. "Who owns this place?"
"Oh, my dad? Why?"
"Can I see him?"

The boy got weary.
"Something's not up to your standard?"
"On the very contrary. Good coffee, very good coffee. However, I'm interested in acquiring just a bit more than a cup of coffee here today. Or three of them for that matters."
"If you mean, uh," the boy paled if possibly ever more, and the customer realized he had expressed himself perhaps a bit unclear.
"No, I'm not one of those offering protection. Rest assure in that, I just want to make a bit of an odd deal with your dad. So if you'll fetch him for me, I'd be pleased."

Still apprehensive looking, the boy went over to a phone at the far end of the corner and dialed a number. Then he was murmuring silently into the funnel, his eyes sometimes slipping over to the man by the counter, who was drinking his coffee, whilst not batting an eye. After a while, a pot-bellied man in his mid-forties, and with a clear likeness to the barista, arrived through the back door. He strode over to the man by the counter.
"I'm Lodz," he said curtly. "Owner of this place. How may I help you?"
"I have a bit of an odd request," the man by the counter said. "I wish, to rent that window table over there," he nodded over to the round table for two by the window on the right hand of the door opening. "For about a week from now."

"Rent it?" Lodz looked consternated, and with all right. "What for?"
"For me and some colleagues, to sit here looking out. We desire to keep an eye on your neighbor opposite the alley."
"The Tattoo Shop? What for?" Then Lodz' face lit up. "Oh, you're with the tax department? Counting customers. That's how they did it back in Vancovur at least, where I came from, when they suspected someone was up to piling money away from under their noses. Now, I'm not sure, if I wanna be involved in something like that. You don't wanna piss off your neighbors, you know. Not in a place like this."

He was cut off, when the man reached inside of his pocket, retrieving a package of bills.
"Two thousand Units. That's more than you make for a month. And for just a table, you're still keeping your regular customer basis. Which doesn't seem to be hoarding this place," he cast a significate glance behind himself, at the otherwise empty establishment. "And no, we're not with the tax dep. We're from another organization. And we're looking for a very special customer of your neighbor's. You don't really need to know more, other than that it's me and three other people, who'll be using that table. A man and two women, looking like this."

Taking out three mug shots, he placed them on top of the package with the bill. Lodz regarded the package for a while, his face contorting slightly, as his brain worked. Then he grabbed the items on the counter, just as a bell over the door sounded and new customers entered the café, two teenage girls, talking as if their lives depended on it.
"Al right," he said quickly. There was no denial, Lodz needed the money, but he responded with the softer tones of someone who has lowered their head. "But just for a week. You need it for longer than that, then it'll cost more. And you pay for what you eat and drink."
"Deal," the man said and emptied his cup. "Get me another of these macchiato!" he retrieved a single coin, handing it over to Lodz.  

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As Enola and Pela had just started to discuss what to have for dinner, the phone in their room chimed. Pela picked it up and was listening intensely, first furrowing her brows, then beaming up.
"I'll ask my sister, hang on!" She covered the reciever with her left hand, and Enola came to at attention. "You're interested in dining with Sean Claude and Matthew Logan tonight?"
"The residence special agents?"
"Yes, they have asked us out for dinner."

"Yes, certainly! That would be just great! Are they down in the reception waiting for us?"
"No, they're still at work, but if we say yes, they can come picking us up within the hour."
"Tell them yes!" Enola asked and then Pela was on the phone again, talking with who appeared to be Matthew.

"How about Amanda," Pela asked as she hang up.
"She's with her parents tonight," Enola replied. "Otherwise, I suppose the lads would make sure, there were three of them."
"You knew about this?"
"I knew they wanted to do something together with us, but I had no idea that they were planning anything for tonight. Oh, those boys!" Enola smiled.  

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It was almost one past midnight, and the air was crisp bordering on chilly. A star spangled sky dome hung over the landscape, with only a thin sickle of a moon, descending in the west. The night was silent, only crickets were heard, together with the occasional hoot of a hunting owl. Bruce took a single deep breath, filling his lungs with fresh air, and then walked with a soldier's quick pace, towards the irregular building. Jasper followed in his wake, with his gun out, covering his older colleague, and tried to not let his fear show. It was one thing, being hard and tough during a cellar level hearing with a suspect, or inside of a car with a bullet proof hull. However, this was the real thing, they were breaking into the den of thieves, trying to get hold of Jeyna Taylor, and to somehow squeeze out of her, what information she might have about the 'buyer'. This Salem. The mutant, who had ordered the assassination attempt against President Muramaki. Not to mentioning, intel about the inside operator, the one who had compromised the Residence's protection.

As settled, Jasper stayed watchful, whilst Bruce opened up his small backpack, and retrieved a jammer, to take down the outer perimeter alarm, including possible surveillance cameras, although the duo hadn't seen any of those. However, better safe than sorry. When the alarm was off, Bruce used a lock picker to open up the large gate, and soon they were crossing the perimeter up to the house. This was usually the most hazardous part of a break and entry, with possible warning systems triggering whilst they were still out in the open.

But nothing happened, there weren't even dogs, and soon the two agents were up by the earlier spied side door. Here, Bruce deployed another lock picker, after making sure, that all alarms were taken out. And as soon as he had opened up that door too, the two agents stepped inside a dark and dust-smelling back hallway. Bringing out a small flashlight, Bruce shone it ahead of him, keeping the light low, to avoid anything to be seen from the outside. Meanwhile Jasper had made sure the door closed, but didn't lock, just in case they would need to leave quickly.

Silently, they advanced trough the building, looking for a back stair to the upper floor, where they hoped to find the one they searched. From behind a closed door, they heard music, someone with insomnia playing either a radio, a tape or their own guitar. Light was shining in a slim slip, from between the threshold and the closed door. They passed that one and reached a kitchen. However, as Bruce pushed up the door, a light flickered on in the ceiling, and they realized they were not alone.