Fiona's crepe-soled boots thudded on the flagstone walkway as she raced to the building's corner. At the edge of the parking lot, she spotted a copse of mint-green fir trees and dove into their midst. Sequestered in the forest-like thicket, she pulled out her phone and called Nigel Whip, a family acquaintance who resided in the Greater Montreal area. 

What if Nigel's out of the country? Catching her breath, her toe tapped nervously. She hadn't spoken with the distinguished archeologist since a zoom call last Christmas.

"Fiona, lovely to hear from you."

"Nigel, I'm glad you answered." She exhaled with relief. "I'm in Montreal."

"Do you need a lift from the airport?"

"No, but thank you for the offer. I'm outside Villa Maria school." She peered through the branches checking on Conrad's whereabouts. "I'm not here sightseeing. Grandpa Paul's tasked me with a rather pressing mission —solving some archaeological clues to find a lost artifact."

"That's a shame. I have a private tour of Notre Dame Basilica's Perseverance Tower, housing Jean-Baptiste, tomorrow. Twenty-four thousand pounds. The bell's so large that when it rings, it causes structural damage to the cathedral."

"Sounds like the annoying individual I've just encountered." A chilly gust of wind billowed several curls around her cheek. She brushed the unruly strands away from her face.

Nigel murmured appreciatively. "Yes, Soeur Marguerite can be quite forceful. I had my own run-in with her at the Cardinal's dinner last winter."

"Actually, she was quite helpful. It was another individual who was the nuisance."

"Globe trotting dilettante and a new love interest? Temple, your hidden depths never fail to astound me."

Fiona gritted her teeth. "All joking aside, I need your help." She glanced from the school's exit towards Villa Maria's subway station. Down the street, a crowd gathered under a heckling holographic Halloween billboard.

"What do you need me to do?"

"Give me a minute, Nigel." Keeping an eye out for Williams, she crossed the road. Her stomach growled as she checked the color-coordinated transit map posted near a tourism kiosk. Nearby, she noted a sign for a mouth-watering delicatessen. The enticing restaurant was only five minutes away. "Can you pick me up from the corner of Decarie and Côte-Saint-Luc Road? Outside of Dunn's Deli."

"Consider it done. I'll be there within the hour."

"Thank you, Nigel. I'll take the metro to Decarie and grab lunch while I wait." Tucking away her phone, Fiona scanned the vicinity. No sign of the bumbling idiot. Hurrying past the bustling kiosk towards the ticket counter, she laughed as she recalled the stricken look on William's face.

                                         ~~~~~~

Ninety minutes later, Fiona spied Nigel's black luxury sedan with his signature "I🖤RUINS" novelty plate pull up to the curb and park across from the sandwich shop. Holding the lapels of her periwinkle North Face coat up against her chin, she stepped past a construction crew embedded in the bowels of the sidewalk. Was downtown Montreal always besieged with demolition? Eager to escape the ear-splitting dah-dah-dah of constant jackhammering, she approached the idling sedan.

The silver-haired archeologist rolled down his window and shouted over the racket. "Sorry, I'm late, my dear. Hop in—looks like you're freezing." He leaned sideways and opened her door.

"Nigel, I'm so glad to see you," She nestled into the passenger seat, then froze. What on God's earth. A familiar red-headed passenger was sequestered in back of a blue taxi parked across the street. Had the vexing pest followed her? Before she could decide if it was Williams, the wool-capped head disappeared from sight. Tucking a stray curl behind her ear, she frowned. Impossible. He'd have to be psychic to know I was going to stop here.

"Are you alright?" Nigel reached over and closed her door, muffling the pneumatic pounding. "The immaculate Fiona I know would never be disheveled."

"I'm sorry, Nigel. I thought I saw a large rat." Cocooned in the car's luxurious parchment colored interior, she breathed a sigh of relief before placing her purse on the seat beside her. "All this nonstop travel must have me imagining things." She warmed her hands in front of the heater. "Thank you for dropping everything to help me."

"You're talking to someone who's never turned down a peripatetic challenge." He grinned, lines forming around his piercing blue eyes. "By the bye, I could use a change of company. The individual I was with last night was insatiable. I had to leave at three am."

Fiona chuckled. "Nigel, the only thing you love more than an archaeological challenge is a clandestine liaison. If only I could dive into the dating scene with such fervor." Her laughter sputtered as she recalled Damian's painful betrayal.

"Please tell me about these titillating clues, Fi. I love a good archaeological mystery." His cultured voice pulled her out of her reverie.

"Grandpa Paul's given me a map with sequential leads." She extracted a folded paper from her purse. "I printed a Google map to show where the first three clues were found." She pointed to the marked locations. "If I solve the remaining riddles, they'll bring me to Zimbabwe's missing Eagle statuette." The archaeologist's brow furrowed as he listened. "When I saw the Villa Maria clue, I called you, knowing religion is your sphere of expertise."

"Of course." Nigel gave a curt nod. "I relocated to Longueuil last year. We can analyze your information at my home office. Let's take the Jacques Cartier bridge to beat rush hour traffic." His eyes gleamed, "I've always wondered what happened to the eighth bird," then narrowed. "Honestly, I'm not surprised your grandfather's hand was in this biscuit tin."

"Nigel, be nice. Grandpa Paul wants to redeem a friend's past indiscretion —his health is failing." The corners of her mouth turned upwards. "Even though the map and clues might have been an elaborate hoax, I couldn't refuse his request." Reaching into her purse, she retrieved the hastily made rubbing. "If the artifact exists, I'm determined to find the statue." She held up the creased wrapper. "With this."

"A dirty Tim Horton wrapper?" He reared back from the greasy paper. "Really Fiona, urban trash is not my forte. Perhaps Montreal's Waste Management division could be of assistance."

The sandwich wrapper crinkled as she carefully unfolded it and showed him the grainy motif. "It's a rubbing from the back of a nun's grave marker. Specifically, an iron cross that was placed in front of an eagle lectern. I was hoping you could decipher the symbol next to the coordinates. The image is blurry, and I can't tell what it is."

Nigel's eyes widened as he leaned forward and peered through his spectacles. "I see you've made a frottage capturing the image. How clever." He leaned back. "The eagle is St. John's symbol of resurrection...fascinating. I'm eager to forensically scan this piece of trash. We'll identify the symbol and triangulate the clue's location."

As he pulled away from the curb, he gestured at the bustling city. "Fiona, you'll regret not visiting Notre Dame's Basilica with me, but if we take the scenic route through Vieux Montreal, I can show you some historical architecture." He smiled mischievously. "Why not kill two birds with one stone, pardon the pun."

Across the street from Villa Maria's subway station, Conrad stood under the menacing gaze of a cackling, emerald green hag. Blending in with the crowd, he scowled as the life-sized, digital billboard scared the bejeezus out of unsuspecting pedestrians. Hideous witch. How appropriate a witness to his humiliation after escaping from Sister Beelzebub's haunted spider crypt. The hissing crone raked a claw towards him making his trigger finger itch for a rapid-fire paintball gun.

Fifty meters away, he caught sight of Fiona's blue jacket. Preoccupied by a phone call, she paced in front of the underground Metro building. Staying out of her line of sight, Conrad swiftly circled the subway station. Maneuvering around a green trash bin, he busied himself with a glossy La Ronde pamphlet at the tourist kiosk. On the other side of the information booth, he overheard the slippery teacher's plan to meet someone at Dunns on Decarie Street. His mouth formed a grim line.

Run woman, but you can't hide.

After his quarry disappeared into the underground Metro, he urgently searched for a taxi. Luck was with him. An off-duty blue cab was parked twenty five meters down the road. He tapped on the driver's window. "Monsieur, can you take me to Dunns on Decarie?"

Rolling down his window, the bearded driver looked up at him and frowned, a half-eaten sandwich on his lap. "Net, I on break." Conrad held out a red fifty-dollar bill. Keen blue eyes appraised him before accepting the money. "Get in."

Seated in the backseat, he was envious of the faux-fur ushanka the serious-looking man wore. The dark brown, hat reminded him of the kick-ass attire in one of his favorite movies, Dr. Zhivago. Maybe he could snag one of these warm ear-covering caps before he left. He glanced at the rakish driver's identification license. Sergei Kalashnikov. A Russian cabbie named after the most widely used rifle on the planet? He grinned. The wolfish-looking man was probably a speed merchant. Exactly, what he needed.

As the taxi merged with rush hour traffic, he mentally regrouped. His uber-rich client, Amanda Lewis, would be livid if she found out he'd been bested by a five-foot-four schoolmarm. First rule of survival. Never appear weak in front of a predator. His prime directive now was to get control of this situation.

Irritably scratching the stubble on his chin, he set his incoming calls to voicemail. He'd avoid that mother-of-a phone call at all costs. Get a grip on yourself, mate. This wasn't the time to be distracted by Miss Grenville-Temple's pouty lips and her sexy-as-hell Brit accent, not to mention her other attractive assets.

Twilight fell as they drove down Sherbrooke street, Montreal's main artery. Nigel pointed at the Musée des beaux-art's neoclassical architecture. "You can see why I love living here. Montreal's a cultural gem." After a minute of silence, he said, "Fiona, if you find the last Zimbabwean bird, have you given any thought about the ramifications of this discovery?" He checked the rear view mirror.

"Mwari legend says peace will return to our nation once the last statue's been recovered." An inner calm enveloped her as she spoke. "I want my people to connect to their ancestors and sustain their community. This quest is larger than me." Unconsciously, her hands stroked the satchel containing the rubbing.

"Lovely sentiment, but that's not what's worrying me. Finding the statue will paint a target on your back." His words were clipped.

She turned to face him. "How so?" She fought the urge to belch as her stomach roiled. Her mother had never divulged the reason behind her frosty relationship with her distant father-in-law. Why?

Nigel turned onto Rue Notre Dame, one of Montreal's busiest north-south thoroughfares. "This may come as a surprise, but your grandfather's not the selfless humanitarian he claims to be."

Fiona stiffened. "Nigel, if you know something about my grandfather, please tell me. I've never understood why your relationship with him was strained."

Grimacing, he loudly exhaled. "Back in the day, Paul was no saint. He made his money by laundering funds for the diamond cartel. He didn't share that financial gem with you, did he?" When Fiona raised her eyebrows, he laughed mirthlessly. "Did he tell you his partner, Jackson Turner, was one of the most ruthless Intelligence agents who ever worked for The Circus?"

Fiona shook her head. "All I know is that he retired from the DeBeers diamond syndicate after his health failed. Are you telling me that he's some kind of...art thief?" She recalled her grandfather's admission in the museum. I brought you here under false pretenses. "Nigel, he promised me." Frowning, she emphasized each word. "Once I acquire the artifact his friend pilfered, I can return the statue to Zimbabwe."

Nigel guffawed. "Not his friend. His deceased lover. I know Paul. He won't let you repatriate the bird. Your grandfather will sell this national treasure on the black market for a king's ransom." Fiona struggled to reconcile two conflicting versions of the patrician man she'd known all her life. A loving patriarch, or a covert, bisexual burgher.

"Nigel, you can't be serious! I don't believe these nasty accusations. Grandpa Paul's an honorable man. Why on earth would he sell the statue? He's wealthy." Disorientated, she felt the world had been turned on its side.

"Robber barons never retire. They only get more rapacious."

"You're saying that I can't trust my own grandfather?" The color drained from her face as her fingers tightened around the beaded straps of her purse.

He looked at her as if she was dim-witted. "Paul's most virtuous trait was that he believed in killing people as a last resort. Unlike Jackson, a lethal assassin who loved perfecting his craft. Traitorous little arse." His face darkened. "He's put you in danger, Fi."

She remembered her grandfather's comforting admission regarding her safety. I always kept an eye on you. "I know Grandpa Paul can be reserved and secretive, but he adores me. He'd never deceive me in such a vicious manner."

"He already has." His harsh tone made her flinch. "I've heard rumors about the eighth bird's recovery from several greedy auctioneers. International collectors are queuing up in anticipation of the bidding war of the century." Nigel swerved around a construction sinkhole. "I'm sorry. I know it's hard to accept that someone you love might be using you."

"Is this why the two of you haven't spoken in over twenty years?"

"Paul's never forgiven me for my indiscretion with Jackson." Nigel's eyes clouded. "I can't defend my past behavior, but I can explain why that unscrupulous thief hid his clues internationally. He was a cruel, sadistic lover." Nigel touched the marked locations on the map she'd placed on the seat between them. "MI6 had an office near each of these areas. Jackson was able to have an affair every time he left a clue. He loved throwing the young men he slept with in Paul's face." His voice lowered. "That's how your grandfather found out about my tryst with him. There was probably a separate tell-all letter he never showed you. Jackson knew Paul couldn't hunt down the clues without being reminded of his affairs."

He hesitated for a heartbeat, carefully regarding her. "But now your grandfather has you." Fiona blinked, her mind whirling as she imagined the salacious love-triangle. "If you find the bird Fi, what's your plan?"

Her brow wrinkled. "The truth is, I haven't thought that far ahead. The only thing I care about is recovering the national symbol of my people." As hard as she tried, she couldn't discount Nigel's allegations against her grandfather. Was he using her to find the bird for monetary gain? Noticing the pained look on his face, she regained control of her emotions. "Now I understand why Grandpa Paul said his friend had a personal connection to Montreal." She covered his hand with hers and gently squeezed. "Nigel, I'm sorry Jackson hurt you. He sounded like a terrible person."

"Don't worry, my past can't savage me anymore." He smiled, gallantly. "Unlike you, who has the future in your hands. Please don't make the same mistake with Paul that I did."

"What's that?"

"Believing what he says."

Tracking Fiona from the school to Dunns, he'd caught a break when he'd spied his quarry finishing lunch in the eatery's window. "Can you pull over and wait a while? Let the meter run."

"Da." The stoic Russian assumed a meditative expression as he observed his fare in the rearview mirror. "Red, you detective on case?" Tilting his chin upwards, he caught Conrad's gaze.

"No. I'm a private contractor." Keeping track of the errant schoolmistress, Conrad slouched lower in the backseat. "People call me when they need a virtuoso to get them out-ta the shitter." He brushed a lock of mahogany hair off his forehead. Met with aloof silence, he added, "Believe me —that's harder than it sounds." Unimpressed, the driver exhaled through his nostrils and eyed the other half of his sandwich.

He jumped when his mobile vibrated. Retrieving his phone from his cargo pants, he groaned as Amanda Lewis' dazzling face materialized on screen. Damn, why hadn't the call gone to voicemail? He pressed the accept call icon. "Miss Lewis, what can I do for you?"

"Mr. Williams, where's my status update? I've been waiting to hear from you since midnight." Conrad bristled at her imperious tone. Papers rustled in the background as she tutted derisively. "Is this what you call progress?"

Grimacing at the bewitching blonde's icy demeanor, he imagined her stabbing red-hot needles into the most vulnerable parts of a miniature likeness of himself. "For your information, I'm working on the assignment right now."

"Since you failed to update me last night, I assume you've bungled the fourth clue. I don't take failure lightly." Dead air hung between them. "Have you ever played Russian Roulette, Mr. Williams?" He heard a desk drawer slide open. "You now have two strikes against you."

Zck-zck-zck..zck...zck.

"You know what they say —eventually everyone's luck runs out." A chill crawled up Conrad's spine.

Click.

"Even yours. I wouldn't tempt fate with a third blunder."

Was it his imagination, or had he heard the ratcheting whir of a revolver cylinder followed by the metallic click of a trigger? Conrad stiffened as his eyebrows drew together. Had she said bullet or blunder?

"Is that a threat?" He jumped up. "Listen, this isn't funny. Lady, you hired me to do this job less than a month ago." His jaw clenched. What did this hellacious harpy think he was —some starving bird-of-prey, hawking at her beck and call?

"This isn't a game, Mr. Williams. You signed my contract. I expect results, not excuses."

Conrad laughed, harshly. "I didn't sign anything in blood."

"Maybe it's not your blood on the line." More papers rustled. "You have a younger sister who dances for the Joffrey Ballet Chicago corps de ballet —a promising ballerina. I would imagine she's fond of her legs."

Conrad's gut clenched as the floor dropped out beneath him. His mind reeled. This bitch WAS crazy. Winning at any cost had overridden her criminal sanity.

"If you want the statue, leave Siobhan out of this." He clenched his teeth. "I'll send you an update tonight." Knuckles whitened, he ended the call. The money was lucrative, but Lewis' threat against his sister had changed everything.

He quickly lowered himself out of view as Fiona crossed the street to meet a black sedan. He had nearly missed her, distracted by the influencer's insidious harangue. "Sergei, can you follow that Lexus?" Starting his engine, the cabbie pulled into traffic and expertly tailed Nigel's vehicle.

Crossing the Jacques Cartier bridge, the wheels of the car made a thrumming vibration on the metal grating. The humming noise soothed Fiona's frayed nerves, lulling her to sleep. Her attention shifted from the cantilevered structure's spectacular, interactive light show to the massive river moving below their feet. The St. Laurent flowed along the island's shores like a silent, serpentine river god. A gateway between the Great Lakes and the North Atlantic. Contemplating everything she'd learned had given her a throbbing headache. She was an insignificant minnow swept up in a torrential river of intrigue. She missed home. She missed Nkosi.

Exiting the bridge, Nigel gripped the steering wheel as a red Molson beer truck cut him off. "Bloody hell!" He rolled down the window and deployed the Trudeau Salute with his middle finger. "Learn to drive, you idiot." The truck's air horn blared as the vehicle rumbled into another lane.

Looking into the side-view mirror, Fiona's breath caught. A blue taxi cab behind them was now visible. "I think we're being followed." Her pulse quickened. "That's the taxi I saw parked in front of Dunns. The only person who could be in that cab is the other treasure hunter."

"You mean the large rat you saw?"

"The bloody nuisance." Grabbing the headrest, she turned and glared at the pursuing vehicle. "His name is Conrad Williams. I don't know who sent him, but he's after the bird too."

"Is he dangerous?" Curious, Nigel glanced at the rear view mirror. "Is he armed?"

"Honestly, I don't know." Fiona recalled Conrad's joking banter with her in the crypt.

"Don't worry, I know the suburb's logistics better than a Vegas card counter. Astra, play NiTE RiDER." The dash glowed to life as Nigel expertly downshifted. The accelerating landscape blended into a bokeh of streaming colors, while 80s synth music pulsed above the Lexus's purring engine. The archeologist looped around the expressway and flashed a satisfied smile when the cab became lost in the rat's nest of side streets. Forty-five minutes later, he pulled up to an Italianate brick two-level.

Knowing Nigel's eclectic taste, she wasn't surprised his home was situated in a neighborhood dominated by quaint, French Gothic residences. "We're here. You can stop gripping the door handle. I'll get us some refreshments before we decipher the frottage. Impressive driving?"

"Yes, you have steady hands." Her own were shaking. To Fiona's immense relief, Nigel's hypnotic playlist stopped throbbing inside her skull.

Nigel smirked as they pulled into his carport. "Montreal's a very European city. Not everyone knows the side streets and shortcuts, but I find they come in handy losing a tail." He stopped by a large glass bowl of colorful treats, placed on a side table by the entrance. "I'll leave this outside for the trick-or-treaters so we won't be distrubed." In the foyer, he accepted the rubbing Fiona passed him. "On second thought, would you mind getting us a repast from the icebox? That way I can scan this foul object right away. There's a Côtes de Beaune Reds 2019 burgundy chilling on the second shelf."

After refreshing herself in a palatial bathroom, Fiona opened the stainless steel fridge. The Piri Piri chicken sitting on the glass shelf made her mouth water. Pouring herself a second glass of wine, she organized a plate of fruit and cheese, leaving the cold seasoned chicken on the table and then carried it into Nigel's office. Nibbling on crackers and brie, Fiona propped her glasses up in her hair, watching a 3D image of the symbol form on his computer. "That looks like a vulture. How interesting. I found a griffin vulture pictogram in the Stopicá cave near the Bigren Tubs."

Nigel nodded, humming with pleasure at her acuity. Too engrossed to eat, he examined the computer image. "Exactly, your symbol isn't related to ritual or the archeology of religion. This is a modern pictogram."

"What does the bird symbol mean?"

"Pictograms are open to diverse interpretations. They're not a universal language." He rotated the hologram on its side and printed a copy. "However, the wings could be interpreted as the number thirty three." The vulture reflected in his glasses. "A masonic number." Fiona tilted her head, intrigued by the numerology.

A wistful look crossed Nigel's face. "Jackson loved devising sophisticated ciphers and codes." His voice thickened. "When I first met him, he wasn't a jackal—he was the most exciting man I ever loved." Conflicted, he looked away and marshaled his emotions.

"Anyway," he took a large gulp of wine as he opened the web browser, "let's check the coordinates. Ah, here we are." Eyebrows raised, he looked at Fiona. "Looks like you're going to California's Mousetrocity."

"What?" Fiona stopped nibbling her cheese.

"Disneyland." He frowned recalling the Magic Kingdom's price gouging tactics. "The largest trap for humans ever built by a mouse. I've been there. Everything costs a bomb."

The blue cab parked across the street, one block down from Nigel's house. "I'll get out here —thanks, Sergei. Nice driving." Conrad added a generous tip when he paid and then fell in step with a group of parents taking their kids trick-or-treating for All Hallow's Eve. The family suburb bustled with miniature ghosts, pitchforked devils, and sword-wielding Jedis. By the Alliance, he'd need the force with him tonight. Shielding himself behind a skipping hobgoblin crossing the street, he approached the elegant brick home where he'd seen the black sedan park in the garage.

The night was clear, the air cold and crisp. Above, the moon shone brightly, providing ample light. Sugar fuelled children ran about yelling, "Halloween apples" as they received caramel popcorn balls. The noisy, chaotic shebang gave him nice cover from being detected. From his vantage point on the veranda, behind a glowing Jack-O-Lantern, he saw two darkened silhouettes moving inside the house. He slipped around the side and started checking entrances, then cautiously hefted himself onto the sill of an unlocked first-floor bathroom window.

He hesitated. If the Anthony Hopkin look-alike had any codependent fur balls running about, he was shit out of luck. Fortunately, there weren't any yapping, four-legged puffballs jumping in his face as he slithered head first onto the bathroom floor. Inside, cheerful voices emanated from what he assumed was a first floor office. Between tinkling laughter and clinking glasses, he heard enough snippets of conversation to confirm the cursed Temple woman and her friend had solved the Villa Maria clue. He gritted his teeth. She was riding high now, laughing at him. Wasn't that what women did once you let your guard down? Repeatedly, plunge a stiletto into your beating heart? He was up against two cunning women with questionable morals and he was being badly beaten.

Admittedly, ever since grade school he'd had a thing for female instructors. He recalled young Miss Hamlin, his eighth grade teacher, standing on tiptoe to write the next day's assignment on the chalkboard. Her white, cotton panties just visible beneath the hem of her navy jumper dress. What color panties would Fiona wear? With all the non-stop travel, she'd probably gone commando, same as him. He balled his fists. They were alike in that manner, willing to do whatever was necessary to get the bird. He'd need every bush survival tactic he'd ever learned to prevail, but what he needed now was misdirection.

He paused in the hallway, silently grunting his approval at a display of indigenous Taíno artifacts. Everything was exquisitely curated. Back home he'd collected a few artifacts of his own. Aboriginal pieces. One day he'd have a place like this, except he'd fill it with a soulmate, a few puffballs, and little rug-rats running about his feet. He wasn't a player. He'd mate for life once he found the right partner.

He crept into the luxury kitchen. A surge of envy washed over him as he observed the luxe granite countertops, double-door refrigerator, and the Rolls-Royce of ranges, a Bertazzoni Heritage cooktop with a matching wall oven. The old coot was a serious foodie. He sniggered as his gaze fell on the Piri Piri chicken. This'll do.

"What's burning?" The alarm screeched as tendrils of smoke crept along the ceiling.

Nigel looked at Fiona. "Stay here. I'll investigate." Ignoring him, Fiona found Nigel in the kitchen, pulling a burning dish towel from the range while a flaming chicken torched the wall stove. Waving smoke out of his face, Nigel saw the appliance flames had been turned up high. "I didn't know arson was one of your accomplishments."

"It's not." Fiona climbed up on a high-backed bar stool chair to shut off the smoke alarm. "Nigel, I didn't do this."

"Then who did?" He hastily opened a window.

"Someone else. Look!" She pointed as a russet -haired figure, wearing green cargo pants, dashed out of Nigel's office

"Stop, you arsonist!" Grabbing a carving knife, Nigel lunged in front of the intruder and blocked his path. Conrad swerved, accidentally knocking Fiona off her perch. She screamed as her glasses flew off her face. Her arms pinwheeled wildly as she did a three hundred and sixty-degree mid-air pirouette.

Below her, a blurred figure performed a mind-boggling Cirque du Soleil leap and caught her an instant before her face hit the edge of the marble topped kitchen island. Dazed, she exhaled with relief as strong arms cradled her like a dipped tango dancer, her head dangling inches above the black and white tiled floor. For a split second she enjoyed being held, until she blinked and recognized the dark, hawkish eyes regarding her with fierce concern. "Let go of me, you bastard." She shrieked as her savior abruptly dropped her. Disorientated, she watched the blurry intruder dash out of the kitchen.

Dropping his knife, Nigel knelt beside her. "Fiona, are you alright?" She winced as he gently placed her oval glasses on her face. "My God, who was that handsome stranger? Do you know him?"

"Handsome stranger?" She felt a primal scream rising in her throat. "He just tried to burn us alive." Wild-eyed, Fiona struggled to her feet. Fearing the worst, she ran into Nigel's office and confirmed the 3D printout was missing from his desk. "Williams has the coordinates and the information about the vulture." Fiona imagined the bird slipping through her hands like a disintegrating sand castle. She pushed her silver-rimmed glasses up the bridge of her nose. "Nigel, I have to get to Disneyland first."

"I'm sorry your mystery man got away." Retrieving the discarded knife, he retreated to his computer and pulled up his travel account. "The least I can do is buy your airline ticket. I have more air miles than George Clooney in Up In the Air."

The story continues Nov 27, with Reffster 's chapter. Don't miss the next exciting installment!

Trivia Question: Does anyone recognize the two actors playing Conrad and Sergei in the taxi cab picture?

(Here are two hints, "Moscow on the Hudson" and "May the force be with you!") 🥥 👻

Answer: Robin Williams and Ewan McGregger.