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indefinitely. Now, the manner of your incarceration can be good or not so good. It can be here or in a nicer place, eventually with an outdoor garden, maybe contact with certain other inmates.”
    She was good, this one, well briefed about his garden at home, his sole expression of art, and the many satisfying hours he spent gardening. It was a remnant of the British influences of his youth when they occupied his country, dividing his homeland up like a holiday goose at the dinner table. His father, through his connections with the British Empire, secured free passage for his mother, his brother, and him to relocate in Hungary.
    His father died soon after their arrival in that new country. He and his brother strayed from the religious teachings into the ways of science. They were both naturals at it, with each achieving academic honors and degrees in various disciplines.
    â€œOkay, so here’s what I want to know: how did you adulterate the vaccine? How did you get operational ability in the U.S.?” The agent slid a pad across the plain wood table. He disregarded it, instead he remained focused on the wall, calculating the stress forces that combined and created the horizontal crack in the plaster.
    â€œThis is the only way for you to get some semblance of normality for the rest of your living days, Sheik.”
    She was showing some small amount of respect to his position. Still, he remained focused on the fracture. He shifted in his seat.
    â€œAren’t you going about this all wrong?” he finally said, recognizing her against his better instincts.
    â€œI am not going to insult your intelligence and befriend you then use that friendship to weasel information out of you,” Brooke stated flatly. She finally got eye contact from him for her gambit. “You will never get out of here, unless you tell me what I want to know. That is an iron-clad fact, sir.”
    The Sheik smiled. He knew he wouldn’t be here long.
    âˆžÂ§âˆž
    It reminded Bill of P.S. 21, the little, red brick front part. The original school building to which, in 1957, the modern extension was attached. The basement of that 1900’s elementary school was the same as the basement here in the White House, right down to the moisture-controlling gray sealant paint.
    It was uncomfortable for Bill to have a gun in the White House. He held it dead at his side so no one would notice it and take a shot at him, especially no one in this room – the target range beneath the portico of the West Wing. Brent returned after signing out the ammo.
    â€œThe last time I fired a gun was up at my uncle’s cabin.” Hiccock said.
    â€œHandgun?”
    â€œNo, mostly .22s rifles.”
    â€œI bet there wasn’t a safe Coke bottle or old toy within a mile.”
    â€œBathroom tiles! Uncle Jack was a plumber. They shattered like you hit ‘em with a bazooka.”
    â€œWas Jack former military?”
    â€œHunter. He actually hunted for his winter meals. Mostly venison.”
    Brent reached down and took the gun from Hiccock’s hand. He threw off the safety, pulled back the slide, and popped the clip. “My little rule is approach every gun as loaded and every time for the first time.”
    â€œYeah, you look more cautious than me.”
    â€œEvery firearm accident happens because overconfidence makes you get sloppy. Every gun is loaded, even the one you just put down.” He placed the unloaded gun on the cleaning table next to his own identical automatic then intentionally picked up his. “Until you know that this time it isn’t.” He hit the slide hard and ejected the live round from the twin gun.
    It was a bit of obvious sleight-of-hand, but it made the point to Hiccock. “Got it.”
    â€œSo since you just want to be proficient, we’ll start on the basics.”
    And so Hiccock’s Introduction to Firearms 101 course started with Brent Moscowitz, the Secret Service agent