PLAYERS By T Bishop Rated R (For Language) Category: VRA, Post Season 8 Disclaimer: If only... Feedback: Eagerly awaited at tbishop27@mindspring.com Author's Notes: Thanks to David, Marybeth, Tracy and Shoshana for beta. And thank you, Grasshopper, for keeping up the archive. All my stories are archived at: The Literary G-Spot http://tbishop.freeservers.com/ or http://arcticfox42.phpwebhosting.com/Tbishop.htm PLAYERS She walks down a darkened alleyway listening between rapid breaths and carefully measured footsteps for the slightest indication someone is following. Though certain she's managed a clean escape, the paranoia never leaves her. She is obsessive about the smallest details because her lifestyle doesn't allow for mistakes. She's a key player in an elaborate game of carefully crafted deception, where the stakes are life and death, and the only rule is trust no one. Like a spider, she weaves a web intended to snare her prey - an intricate mesh of lies. But as she hunts, she is also hunted. In this shadowed conspiracy of unconscionable inveigling, she cannot let her guard down, lest she fall victim to a more cunning predator. Every player is hiding something, has a secret agenda to protect and advance. She is no different than the rest of the pieces moving about on the board. No one can know where she's headed tonight. Her alibi is airtight; but there is no resting assured with so much to lose. Emerging from the alley, the dark-haired woman glances left then right, and casually makes her way across the street, slipping into a seedy bar on the corner - one more meticulously planned move to thwart her adversaries. She has witnessed too many colleagues pay the ultimate price for underestimating the enemy; arrogance will not be her end. The clientele of this establishment is dangerous, but, then again, so is she. The concealed pistol she wears has seen countless practice rounds, perfecting her aim to deadly precision. She meditates religiously to hone her awareness, so she can react on instinct without sacrificing control. "Stoli and soda," she tells the bartender, taking a seat at the far end of the counter, watching the door. Her eyes sweep the room, scrutinizing every face, each a potential enemy. She's anxious, but understands the inherent danger in haste. It's been a long week and the secondhand haze that passes for air in this place stings her tired eyes as she takes the first swallow of the bitter cocktail set before her. She's not a drinker, but players assume many roles - sometimes masterfully. A couple of bikers saunter in. She gives them the once-over before deciding they're too well recognized by the other patrons to be of concern. Thirty minutes pass. While she's waiting, a guy who introduces himself only as "Snake" does his best to hit on her. She amuses herself with the flattery for a while, but eventually sends him on his way. "You want another?" the gruff voice of the bartender drags her attention from a blonde woman dancing alone in front of the jukebox. She shakes her head, tossing some bills on the counter to cover the tab. It's time. On the ruse of going to the ladies room, she casually checks over her shoulder before disappearing out the back door. Another alley. She wrinkles her nose at the sour odor that assails her. The stench of rotting garbage, vomit and urine is intensely nauseating in the stagnant summer heat. Holding her breath, she forces herself deeper into the badly lit passage. Each step she takes, her mind torments her with phantom stalkers and imaginary attackers lying in wait. At last, emerging on the other side of the block, she hails one of the taxis parked in front of the Trailways bus terminal. "Where to?" the driver asks in a thick Arabic accent. "Just drive," she snaps. The trick is to keep moving. If a shark stops swimming, it dies. If a player stops maneuvering... Her eyes leave the back window only long enough to call out directions. "Take a left here." A blue sedan makes the turn with them. Her stomach tightens as she attempts to swallow her panic. "Go right at the next light," she commands. "It's a one-way," the cabbie objects. "Just take the next right that you can then." The pounding of her racing heart sets the tempo for flight or fight. Obediently, the driver reroutes. The sedan stays with them. "Damn it," she mutters to herself. How the fuck did she pick up a tail? Her tongue snakes out to moisten parched lips. Thinking, always thinking. She doesn't want to have to abort. The suspect vehicle suddenly pulls into a parking garage. False alarm. Thank God. Expelling a tense breath, she gives instructions to head north. She's spooked; and the taxi meter racks up a hefty fare before her nerves settle enough that she's willing to follow through with her plan. "Oriole Park at Camden Yards." She finally gives away her intended destination. A wary look reaches her through the rearview mirror; then the cab makes a U-turn, heading back in the direction from which they've just come. They passed the ballpark twice on their wandering tour of the city. This time she'll commit. She settles the bill, plus a sizable tip for the driver's patience. And as the taxi pulls back out into traffic, the woman walks with measured pace to the main entrance of the stadium. "It's the bottom of the eighth," the puzzled gatekeeper informs her when she hands him her pre-purchased ticket. She says nothing, taking back the torn stub and hurrying through the turnstile - rushed with a surge of adrenalin in anticipation. It's a warm night. She breathes in the atmosphere of this spirited place. The sweet scent of cotton candy reminds her of an innocent time, before her seduction into a world of intrigue. The stadium is alive with happy sounds, music, cheering... normal people enjoying one of life's simple pleasures. Baseball. The thought makes her smile. But she isn't here for the sport... * * * * * He is one of the shadow men, his true identity a mystery - fictitious name and credentials, living a lie every day of his life. Even when you drop out you're still a player. He wants out - desperately - but the price is too high now. If he quits, they win; and losing is no longer an option he's willing to consider. He'll do whatever's necessary; that's how shadow men survive. And survival is what the game is all about - the survival of mankind vs. the survival of a dying race of parasitic aliens looking for new hosts to perpetuate their species. Along the way, however, it has become more than a clash between two civilizations. Internal conflicts on both sides have created a minefield of hidden agendas, making the theatre of war exponentially treacherous. He is a veteran of many battles; owed a slew of purple hearts for all the wounds he's suffered in the line of duty. But shiny medals and honor ceremonies do not interest him. He has something far greater, infinitely more precious than recognition and praise. That's why he can't give up. He refuses to see these hard-won, and dearly treasured spoils, taken away by ruthless enemies who would surely destroy them, if for no other reason than out of spite. So he continues the fight, suffers the inconveniences of war, moves his very tiny army about on the game board attempting to outmaneuver his adversaries one by one... because that's the only way he can. Sometimes he laughs at the absurdity of it all, the cloak and dagger routines, the endless vigilance in every circumstance - it's an insane lifestyle when a trip to a baseball game requires days of painstaking preparation. But you can't be too careful when everything that matters is on the line. He's learned to blend in perfectly in almost any crowd. Tonight it's a tacky Hawaiian print shirt - untucked to hide the weapon that never leaves his side - Dockers shorts and a well-worn baseball cap. The Ray Bans didn't come off until the sun went down after the seventh inning stretch. It's a good game, but his attention is elsewhere. He's nervous tonight; his worried eyes scanning the aisles with increasing frequency as the evening wears on. Cal Ripken hits a homer off Roger Clemens in the bottom of the eighth, and Joe Torre comes out of the dugout to confer with his pitcher while the local crowd cheers their hero around the bases. "THE ORIOLES TAKE THE LEAD!" the stadium announcer's voice yells above the mayhem. The commotion is distracting. He doesn't see her approaching from behind... * * * * * Section CC, Row 10, Seat 13. The crowd jumps to its feet but she's already spotted him. The celebration allows her to move in, relatively unnoticed. He's wearing a NY Yankee's cap and so is the baby boy bouncing on his knee. Between the bleached blonde hair, beach clothes, and dark tan, he looks more like a California surfer than former FBI. He looks good - a sight for weary eyes. She slides into the empty seat beside him and his contact-enhanced blue eyes widen when he sees her. The beautiful smile that greets her can't be disguised. "Any trouble?" he asks, stealing a quick kiss. She knows he worries about her. "No," she reassures him, feeling herself relax for the first time since she left DC. He hands her the baby, who laughs and bestows a toothless grin, reaching immediately for the unfamiliar wig. "Hey, sweetie. How ya been? Mommy missed you." She tugs at his little cap, amazed all over again at the striking resemblance to his father already. Her lover wraps his arm around her shoulders, the ballgame forgotten. "I arranged for a place at the beach this time," he tells her with that hungry look she's come to know so well. It makes her shiver even on this balmy summer night. "Thank you." She leans her head back against his arm, gazing up at the glorious star-filled heavens, enjoying the tickle of her son's chubby fingers as he plays with the cross pendant at her neck. To everyone but her this man and his son are dead, killed five months ago in a tragic car bombing. Because of the extreme heat generated by the incendiary device used in the attack, their bodies had been burned beyond recognition. She had been the lone witness to this horror, and she played out her role with heartbreaking realism. If it had actually been true, she would have ended her life without another thought the day of the explosion. Five months, and she can count on her fingers the number of weekends she's been able to sneak away to be with them. It's so hideously unfair, but their son was born a pawn in this vicious game, and she'll gladly suffer any amount of personal inconvenience to keep him safe. The baby rests his head against her chest and she rubs his back in a soothing circular motion. She closes her eyes, reveling in a rare moment of maternal bliss as her infant son drifts off to sleep in her arms. He's such a sweet little boy, forgiving her time and again for her absences in his life. God, how she wishes things were different for him... for all of them. She dreams of a day when their happiness won't revolve around stolen moments. Soon, she promises herself, she'll find a way to make it happen. Until then she lives her life in short gasps, holding her breath until the next time they can be together. ~ End ~ Life is too short to drink bad wine.