"Go ahead and order a drink," Mira says, glancing up from her newspaper to see a mini-skirted clad waitress at their table in the Conga showroom. "It's included in the price of the show. Though why you wanted to see Jeff Kutash's Splash II I don't know," Mira says, returning to scanning her copy of the Reno-Gazette Journal. 

"No thank you," Martin tells the scantily-clad waitress again, despite Mira's prompting. "I'm fine with this," he nods towards the tea steaming in front of him. 

Turning to Mira after the waitress departs with a final dubious glance at the hot tea, he continues, "I picked it at random, why? Does it matter?" 

"No reason," Mira says. "I just didn't think you'd be interested in this. It's a typical hotel show. Mostly naked women dancing by with magicians, singers, wild animals and special effects. Of course in this show they dump water all over the mostly-naked women. Hence the show name." 

"Though there's the motorcycle act. Three guys ride motorcycles around in a closed metal globe. They go upside down, cross paths, etc., at about 35 - 40 mph. I think the metal cage has a diameter of about 12 feet." 

"Sounds more exciting for the cyclists than the spectators," Martin observes, sipping at his tea and polishing off the last of his appetizer. "You're the expert here," he shrugs. "I'm open to suggestions. The closest I've gotten to one of these shows before now was seeing the adds for them in Vegas papers back at the station."

"I don't think there's anything great about this show," Mira shrugs her shoulders, "It's loud if you want to talk. No one is going to be able to hear over it. I suppose if you like a little exhibitionism with your steak and lobster, you'll enjoy it. Though it is the tourist thing to do."

"God forbid," he shakes his head, "that I'm reduced to being a tourist when I've got a local expert to guide me through the pitfalls of the local entertainment scene. Is there someplace else you'd recommend?"

"Well, I guess the question is what would you like to do?" Mira asks, putting down the newspaper. "Most everything downtown is touristy. To be honest, I'd be happy just going to a bar and playing pool."

Martin looks down at his tea for a moment, finishes it in a single swallow, and sets the cup aside before looking back in Mira's direction. "I don't know," he says quietly, and perhaps a touch sadly. "I have no idea what people do in towns like this."

"Oh come on Martin," Mira teases. "It's not that different than any other town. Maybe a little flashy. But hey, I saw Batman Returns in a theater on Pope Street in San Francisco and the first two rows were filled with drag queens. You should have heard the catcalls when Catwoman came out."

"Every town has its unique um 'entertainment,' " Mira says. "Just suggest what you'd do if we were in San Francisco."

"Spend time with my daughter," he replies simply, "But that's not very practical right now. That being the case," he shrugs, "the pool and beer sound all right with me - and a damn sight quieter. Lead the way..." he finishes, beginning to stand up with her.

Before Mira and Martin can make their way out of the casino showroom, the overhead lights drop off, shrouding the seating area in a dreary blackness, punctuated only by the occasional bar of lights marking stairs.

"Great," Mira mutters, "Now we're going to have to wait through the opening number before we can see enough to get out of here." She settles back into the booth with a disgruntled sigh, pausing to add, "Oh well, at least you'll get an idea of why we're leaving."

The stage is suddenly bathed in an incandescent glow as if a thousand fireworks have simultaneously gone off. The retina-searing light is accompanied by the clash of symbols and a techno-thrum of taped music as the first dancers come on stage.

Mira looks thoroughly bored. In fact, it appears she is trying to read the copy of the newspaper using the small light that is attached to the Bronco's key. It's amazing that she's not blind.

Try as he can, Martin can't ignore what is happening on stage. It's like a car wreck. Some part of his human condition forces him to watch as the disaster unfolds before him. In this case it's a disaster of bad taste. There's no real theme to the show. Different sets of dancers wander in and out with no real connection. There's the rapping, breakdancing group. The swing couples. The tap dancers. And finally at one point the 10 showgirls wearing practically nothing but the most humongous head-dresses and a bit of sparkling - things - on their - anatomy - file out on stage. With that the sordid mess comes to a jangling end, but Martin can hear the music queuing up for the next number.

'Thank God," he thinks to himself, shaking his head as if to dislodge any stray memories of the opening number before they take root and become permanent, "Time to run for it." Taking advantage of the slight break, he gets up to go, fully expecting to see Mira leading the way. But, as he turns, he finds Mira sitting at the table. her brow furrowed in concentration, seemingly staring off into the showroom's darkness.

"Mira, what's - "

"Shh......," she whispers, pulling him back toward the table. When he is back in the booth, she says softly, so that he can barely hear it. "They're going to kill someone."

"Who, what?" Martin says.

"The men in that booth, there about eight rows down, near the stage. They're talking about how Gagliani is upset. Thinks that his - " she stops, appearing to concentrate. "How his girlfriend," she resumes. "How his girlfriend is acting weird. Wants to go home, leave. But she can't because no one leaves once they're in. She knows too much. She's seen something."

"Man I wished I'd listened when Antonio talked in Italian. But he only seemed to do it when we were making love, and, like I could concentrate on it then. They keep lapsing into Italian. It's making this very hard," she whispers to Martin.

"Something about how it has to be done tonight, after the show. The girl she's in the show. Joanie's got it coming. Her name's Joanie. If they don't do it tonight, Joanie is going to the Feds."

"Shit we've got to do something. We've got to get back stage. They're going to kill her."

"Kill who," Martin says, confused. "What in the hell is she listening to?" he adds to himself.

"They're going to kill Joanie, the one with the large - feathers -" Mira says, gesturing toward the stage.

Glancing up at the stage despite himself, Martin picks out the girl in question with little trouble, even considering the briefness of Mira's description. "The redhead in the green sequin g-string wearing the peacock on her head?" he asks to confirm his identification.

"Yes and we've got to do something," Mira says, getting up and dragging Martin with her.

"Whoa," Martin manages to get out after being dragged across the darkened floor and into the somewhat quieter hallway. Digging in his heels, he swings Mira into a momentarily deserted alcove next to a large fern. "Let's go over this again," he says quietly. "You just saw, and overheard, a couple of muscle-boys talking about killing the girl wearing next season's NBC logo because she saw something she shouldn't have - from like, seventy feet away, in the dark, in the middle of one of the loudest things I've suffered through since the last street music festival in Berkeley? No way," he waves a hand negatively to punctuate his statement, "no how. I couldn't think in there, much less see or hear a couple of guys on the other side of the room."

He pauses, looking at her for a moment, then Mira can see the light click on in his eyes. "You're a paranormal," he says quietly, a statement, not a question. "That's why the radio bothered you so much in the Bronco when I turned it up yesterday, and how you were reading that paper in the dark."

"Handsome and smart," Mira smiles. "Are you sure David wasn't to try and set us up on a date? No don't answer that. It was just a joke. Well, I've always had the bad habit of reading in the dark," Mira shrugs. "Dad said that I'd ruin my eyes. But yes, I have a few talents. And yes, I overheard what they said. Now shall we go help save this girl?"

Glancing at his watch, Martin looks back at the flashing lights spilling from the doorway of the showroom out into the hall. "We've got a few minutes if the show runs even remotely on time," he says, his voice oddly different in pitch, sounding more official then his normal tone. "Tell me everything you heard and saw - everything."

"OK, you don't have to be intense," Mira says, shaking off Martin's arm. "I want to help. I don't know the guys' names. I picked up in the middle of the conversation and I only noticed because they mentioned Gagliani's name. He's been in and out of trouble since the 70s. He's not even from Reno and he's certainly not allowed in the casinos - given his alleged mob ties. Anyway, these two guys. They were talking about how Gagliani is upset. He thinks the girl Joanie is going t o go to the feds and turn state's evidence. He sent those two guys to make sure she doesn't talk to anyone. They were nebulous about what exactly she knows. To tell the truth most of their conversation revolved around how it was sad to see a girl with such nice 'attributes' taking a fall.

"They plan on getting to her after the show. They didn't say anything about how they were going to take care of her, but the implication was that it would have fatal consequences."

"Marvelous," Martin says to himself. "Just marvelous."

Turning his attention back to Mira, he nods, "Okay, calling the locals probably won't work - they'd never believe you saw or heard anything without proof you *could* - and I don't think you want to give up your life and become a tabloid headline. That leaves either calling the Feds, or handling it ourselves." He pauses for a moment, thinking, "They've probably got someone on the phones, but getting them to believe us is the problem..." He sighs and shakes his head, "We'll try them, but my gut tells me we're stuck out in the cold with this one."

"I wouldn't trust the feds on this, Hell, there's probably someone in their office who leaked it to Gagliani's boys in the first place!" a very animated Mira exclaims. "I wouldn't trust them. No, the only option is to help her ourselves," Mira shakes her head. "We can't call them. Let's make our way backstage."

 "Before we go rushing back there like the Lone Ranger and Tonto," her partner says, eyeing his watch again, "Are you going to recognize these guys if you see them again? I'm *not* going to stop everyone we see and ask them if if their middle name is 'the', or if their last name ends in a vowel..."

"Yes, yes, now come-on," Mira says, practically dragging Martin along behind her. "We don't have any time to waste. We've got a short window of opportunity."

Fifteen minutes and several exit doors later, Martin and Mira are backstage. One thing Martin has observed is that Mira knows a lot about casino back doors, including how to pick their locks. Slightly out of breath from having to run up the emergency stairs, the two find themselves caught in the middle of a sea of performers calmly rushing from one point to another. Costumes are being tossed about and everyone seems to be in a various stage of undress and not caring one whit about what anyone might see. In fact, Mira and Martin nearly get hit by a flying brassiere that is tossed across the room.

"We must have come back during set changes," Mira observes. "Well, what's the plan?"

Martin simply looks at her for a moment, as if she'd announced that she was secretly a Martian or something, and shakes his head in disbelief. "Do you live your entire life in fast-forward?" he asks, then holds up a hand to forestall a reply. "No, don't answer that."

"Deadlines, deadlines, deadline," Mira pipes in anyway.

Looking around, he sways out of the way as a pair of women in little more than spray-on glitter and feathered armbands dash past them towards the stage. "The simple plan would be to find the girl, convince her that we're not insane, and just leave before the boys out are still distracted by mostly naked women...." he pauses to avoid a rolling rack of costumes that thunders by, then finishes his sentence, "...but I haven't been lucky enough to have *anything* be simple in a long while."

"Never know until you try," Mira says, standing on tip-toes looking around. "I think," Mira steps up on a speaker box for a wider view, "Funny, she's not here. Wait a sec."

Grabbing a passing magician who is running a deck of cards up his sleeves in preparation for his act, Mira says, "Hey, we're looking for Joanie. Have you seen her?"

The man carefully shrugs so as not to displace the cards. "Try the chorus dressing rooms."

5 minutes and two close-encounters with performers later, Mira and Martin stumble into the dressing room. A gaggle of showgirls are present. "Joanie?" Mira queries, hopefully, One of the girls points to a Six-foot redhead adjusting her 5-inch tall stiletto heels.

"This is your plan," Martin murmurs, ducking to avoid decapitation by a headdress resembling a modern fighter jet as it, and its wearer, blaze past him yelling for a clear passage to the hall. "We can be subtle or blunt - your call."

"Hi Joanie," Mira says, taking the initiative. "My name is Mira Stafford."

"Look lady, were in the middle of a show here," Joanie says, adjusting the stocking on one long and elegant leg. "If you'd like a picture we can do it later."

"No, I'm not here for a picture," Mira says. "Look," she lowers her voice to a whisper and leans closer to Joanie, "I'm a reporter. My friend here is a private investigator. We happened to be seated in the audience and overheard two gentleman at a table near us planning, what I could only describe as a hit. It appears that a mister Gagliani is unhappy with you and he's asked a rather heavyset man with black hair and piggy eyes named Martinelli and his buddy Gino to pay you a visit. No I don't know you, but I do know Mr. Gagliani's reputation and with him, you don't take threats lightly. We thought you might be in trouble and could use a fair warning," Mira says. "We'd like to help if we can."

At Mira's first words, Joanie looks perturbed. From their she goes through a variety of emotions: recognition, worry and flat out fear. Martin can see she see suspects both of them and is already pulling back.

"I have no idea what you are talking about," she says. "I'm just a showgirl here. I don't know any Mr. Gagliani."

"Look kid," Martin replies quietly. "You don't have a single reason to trust us that I can think of off the top of my head. You don't know us; we've just told you something you obviously didn't want to hear; and the idea of trusting anyone to do something that isn't in their own self-interest probably hasn't occurred to anyone in this town since about the turn of the century. I can't help that." He shrugs in counterpoint to his words, then continues, "I can't help the fact that my friend here overheard those thugs talking about what a shame it was that someone who looked like you had to take a ride into the desert, or that they were told to do it in the first place - that's out of my control too. God knows it was the quietest she'd been all evening."

"Hey, I don't talk that much," says Mira rather indignantly. She falls quiet when Martin shoots her a look. "Well, I don't," she adds under her breath.

He leans forward, one finger poking the frightened showgirl in her bare shoulder, "And I can't help it if you decide that you want to ignore, or run away from us - that's under *your* control. What I *can* do, is really down to two options: One, we can help you get to wherever you're intending to go that has your Mobster boyfriend worried, right now, before Gino and Martinelli finish ogling your friends onstage. Or two," he shrugs again, "we can walk away and let the two of them haul you off somewhere and show you their appreciation for what their boss has been getting and they haven't before they shoot you in the back of the head, and dump you in some ravine outside town for the wild animals to have their turn at appreciation. Your call - your life." He straightens back up, crossing his arms, "Pick one, 'A' or 'B', live or die - it's a simple choice."

At Martin's words Joanie blanches a very unbecoming shade of pasty white. The tone of the conversation and the decidedly unhappy atmosphere of the group is picked up by the rest of the showgirls in the dressing room who immediately find some sort of excuse to leave as quickly as possible.

Biting her lip, Joanie looks at the two as if appraising their intentions. "It's really hard, ya see," Joanie says, a nervous twitch playing across her face. "I don't know what to do. I don't want to die," she wails, suddenly breaking down and throwing herself at Martin.

He finds himself holding a mostly naked showgirl who is crying all over is shirt, smearing make-up on it and whining over and over again, "I don't wanna die. I never did anything wrong."

Mira just shoots him a look that says, "Oh my lord," and rolls her eyes heavenward.

"Well," Martin thinks to himself, as he tries to maneuver the crying showgirl over to a chair without a great deal of success, "I guess I'm going to find out how liberal Tran is with expense accounts now - no way is this coming out without professional help."

Throwing a glance at the door to check for Gino and friends, he looks over at Mira, "We don't have a lot of time here - they'll figure out something's wrong as soon as she doesn't show up on stage for her next number and come to check."

 Mira nods her head in agreement.

 Levering the clinging girl away from his chest, he snaps off, "Get your things and get changed - quickly. There'll be time to cry later, right now we've got to get you out of here without being spotted - and that means you've got to have some clothes on."

Joanie sniffles a few time and wipes her eyes, only succeeding in smudging her make-up into a solid glob over both eyes and making her look like a raccoon. "OK," she readily agrees and begins, much to the chagrin of both Martin and Mira, to just undress right in front of them.

'Charlie," Martin thinks, cutting his eyes away in an attempt to give Joanie some privacy and himself a bit of relief from the flush tingeing his ears, only to find that the multiple mirrors arranged for the showgirls make it a nearly futile effort, "wherever you are, I know this is your fault - and I'm going to get you for it if it's the last thing I do."

"Oh my," Mira laughs. "I forgotten that theater people are different," she says turning around as Joanie, apparently unaware that she has completely embarrassed the two investigators, quickly changes into a pair of sweats and a t-shirt.

Once she is ready, the group makes a beeline towards the backstage exit. "Now I wish I had parked in valet," Mira mutters.

"Two things to remember," Martin advises as they move through the maze of sets and other props towards the exit, "First, I don't know what these guys look like, so you've got to keep your eyes open for them Mira," he pauses as the trio moves around a backdrop whirring by on an automated track suspended from the ceiling, "and Second, getting the girl out is the important thing - if I say run, I want you to grab her and make for the car. If you can't make it there, then head for the most public place you can find and start dialing for some help."

The trio make there way careful from the showroom area, down a set of stairs and through the cacophony of clanging slot machines that crowd the casino. Negotiating the maze of gaming tables and one-arm bandits takes a little bit of skill.

Mira, and at times Joanie, pipe up with directions as they navigate through the labyrinth of the casino floor. "It's designed so you can't figure out how to get out," Mira explains as the group nearly mows down a cocktail waitress.

Finally, the group makes it through the heavily tinted exit doors and out into the Reno twilight. Quickly walking toward the parking garage they grab an elevator and reach the third level where the Bronco is parked.

Everything appears to be fine until as the group waits for Martin to unlock the door when...

"Martin," Mira says. "Gino and Martinelli just walked out of the stairwell."

"Have they seen us yet?" he asks, shifting his feet slightly and glancing in the reflection of the deck displayed on the Bronco's window, trying to judge the two men's position as he unlocks the door.

"If I didn't know better, I'd almost say they knew exactly where we were going," Mira says, pulling open the car door and pushing Joanie inside. "They're not looking around like they are searching for anyone. Just calmly walking over here."

"C'mon God," he thinks to himself, opening the door and hitting the electronic locks to open the rear doors, "you can dump on me all you want, but let the kid get the girl out of here safe, okay?" Dropping the keys onto the concrete next to the door, he bends down to pick them up and reaches under the seat for the gun case he'd left there earlier in the evening while his body blocked the men's view of the Bronco's interior. His hand slides over the case and snaps it open, hurried fingers running across the smooth leather of the pistol's holster as he waits for Mira's reply.

Slamming the door shut on Joanie, Mira's eyes go wide.

"Martin, Look out!" she shouts, "They've pulled guns."

Suddenly the acrid pop of gunfire erupts in the parking garage.

"Damn." The single thought echoes through Martin's mind as he pivots on one leg, his left hand swinging wide from the ground to push at Mira, throwing her back out of the line of fire as the two men begin to shoot, their first rounds whining off of the Bronco and out into the neon night over the city. "Not again," he says, not realizing his words are spoken aloud, "Not again dammit!"

"What are you doing?" Mira asks, as she falls back.

His other hand brings the pistol up and out of the carrying case, a part of his mind noting calmly that he'd drawn the single-action Colt instead of the Browning, and he fires off a shot that thunders louder than the sharp cracks of the smaller, more modern guns the thugs are using, echoing through the parking deck like a peal of thunder.

The smaller of the two men pitches backward with a choked cry, his arms spreading wide, and falls to the pavement in a limp heap, his pistol skittering across the open lane for traffic and vanishing under a nearby parked car. The larger, older man fires again without looking at his fallen comrade, his shot shattering the window of the Bronco over Martin's head.

"Oh damn," she mutters, crawling up from the floor. Ducking to keep her head low, she crawls into the front seat of the car and scrambles into the driver's seat. Jamming the key into the ignition she starts up the vehicle.

"Come on Martin," she calls out, revving the engine.

Thumb-cocking the Colt, Martin fires off another shot, striking the remaining thug in the left shoulder and spinning him around to fall between the two parked cars next to him. As the gunman falls, Martin throws himself into the front seat, clawing the door closed as he yells over Joanie's hysterical screams, "Drive!"

Mira slams her foot on the gas pedal causing the Bronco to rocket out of the parking space in reverse. Pulling hard on the steering wheel, she avoids hitting the other vehicles and screeches to halt for a few seconds to shift the vehicle into first gear. Flooding the engine with gas she peels out, burning rubber as she negotiates the sharp turns of the parking garage and pulls out onto Center Street.

"Everybody OK?" Mira asks. A strangled yes comes from Joanie who looks like she's going to be sick in the backseat.

"Martin?"

Adrenaline still flooding his system, Martin forces himself to concentrate and check for any injuries he might have missed in the brief exchange. "Nothing besides my shirt," he replies a second later, looking distastefully at the make-up stains and small tears from the glass he'd slid over diving into the seat. 'What have you gotten me into Stafford," he sighs to himself as the roaring n his ears begins to subside, "We go out to watch a show and the next thing I know, I'm shooting it out with the Mob for Christ's sake. What's it going to be like when we're actually working?"

"Wait a sec," Mira demands. "What did I get you into? It wasn't me acting like John Wayne back there. Jeez, where'd you get that cannon? Even when I was living in BFE Nevada we didn't carry a weapon like that. I get you in trouble indeed," she adds with a huff. "From what I can see you're pretty good at getting in trouble by yourself sir. If nothing else, I would say I bring a little sanity and thoughtful introspection to this team."

"Just how sensitive is her hearing?" Martin thinks silently to himself, cutting his eyes over at his partner and back to the road. "Got to remember to ask her sometime real soon now before I say something else and screw up even worse."

As she navigates the four blocks it takes to get on the freeway, Martin can hear Mira quietly cursing under her breath accompanied by a strangled whimper from Joanie in the backseat.

"We're going to have to ditch this vehicle," Mira announces cutting across traffic and pulling off at the freeway exit to the Golden Nugget. "Casinos all have the parking garages wired for video. They likely have our vehicle and us on tape. If you killed those guys, the cops will be looking for us. If they survived, they'll be looking for us. About the only thing we've got going for us is that it will take at least an hour to analyze the tape."

Martin speaks up in a tired, oddly unemotional voice from the passenger seat, wind from the shattered passenger door's window stirring his hair, "The first one I hit is dead unless he had a big red "S" on under that suit - it was a clean shot through the sternum, and this thing," he holds up the Colt, still in his hand, "is too big *not* to do the job with placement like that. The other one," he shrugs, "he'll live unless they let him bleed to death, all I did was take his shoulder."

He pauses, and Mira can clearly hear the metallic click as he lowers the hammer on the Colt to safe, "I don't think we've got much to worry about the police - the muscle started shooting first, without any kind of provocation, and that'll be on the tapes too. I think they'll bury it, drop the short guy in a hole somewhere, and spend some time figuring out who we are, and whether or not we're worth finding a hole for too."

"Yeah well, this is Washoe County sheriff's office and one thing they're not is predictable," Mira says.  

Nodding, he absently sets the Colt down on the seat between the two of them and fishes out his cell phone from the glove compartment, "Regardless, we need to call and get something done about the Bronco back in the city," he continues in the same detached voice, "before they pull up the license and get our names and addresses." Without another word, he begins to punch in the numbers for the office's emergency line.

Within two minutes, the call is transferred to Tran's cellular -- on analog, Martin judges from the static when she answers. In the background are sounds of children playing and a television set. "What is the situation?" she snaps sharply.

"We need the registration ID on the Bronco altered immediately," Martin replies, sounding more tired than emotionless now, "We'll also need alternate transportation for the two of us, and someplace for a potential witness against a Vegas mob figure to hide out until she figures out what she's going to do."

"Dump her off at the FBI," Tran says. "The car can't be traced to us; that was why I arranged for it in the first place."

"Mira," he says, throwing a glance at the figure of his partner as she concentrates on the road, "thinks that the local office was in on leaking the girl's name back to the mob - got another suggestion?"

"We don't have the resources to handle it," Tran says. "You have two choices: drop her off at the FBI or take her with you into the desert. If the Feds can't protect her at this point, she's screwed anyway. Your other option is to put her on a bus to Sacramento and tell her to go to the office there."

He pauses, then continues, a bit more bitterly than before, "If you've got any pull with the Mob it'd be nice if you can arrange to have them lose the casino security tapes of me shooting holes in a couple of their soldiers as well."

"Which casino?" Tran asks.

"Harrah's," Martin replies, swapping hands on the phone to move it further away from the open window in the hopes of improving his connection. "Third floor parking deck."

"I'll see what I can arrange, but I would suggest you leave Reno as soon as you get rid of your witness," Tran adds. "Dump the car at the rest stop where I-80 and 95 intersect; I will arrange for someone to meet you there."

"Right," he replies, then pauses before adding, a bit awkwardly, "Thanks."

Turning to Mira he repeats Tran's directions very softly, hoping that Mira will hear him over the rush of air from his window, and Joanie won't, "We swap cars at the rest stop on the intersection of I-80 and I-95 - but we're going to need to get our gear first... and that means dropping the girl off somewhere. Ideas?"

Mira is quiet for a few minutes. "I don't like it," she whispers so low, Martin can barely hear her. "I don't like it at all. To be honest Martin, there really is no one I trust in the government. Too many lies, too many deaths have made it impossible for me to ever willing send someone off to them."

"I understand what Tran's saying, but accepting it. Well I can't accept it. But it's really not my choice."

"Joanie," Mira says raising he voice so the girl in the back seat can hear. "We're kind of at a loss as to where we can take you. We're willing to drive you to the local FBI office, but I'm not sure if that's the safest place for you. If you want, I can buy you a ticket anywhere you need to go in the country."

Joanie is quiet for a few minutes, then clearing her throat she says, "Drop me off at the FBI office. I won't be able to outrun these guys for long. At least if I go to the FBI, there's a chance I might make it out of here alive."

For being shot at and nearly killed, the woman sounds remarkably more together than the sniveling girl who cried her make-up all over Martin's shirt. The incident apparently has forced the girl to come to tough decisions.

Mira shakes her head, turning on the vehicle's turn signal. "I'm turning around. Back to the FBI's office."

As they speed back towards Reno, Martin can hear Mira muttering to herself. "I hate this. I really hates this. Some day I'm going to be able to help people like this."

Martin concentrates on the road behind them watching for tails as Mira drives, not really listening to her after a minute or two more, lost in his own thoughts. "God, please let them get something done with the tape, or let the Mob just right it off... I can't lose Dorothy too, she's all I have left... Please...."