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The birds wouldn’t trip the explosives, as long as they hovered.
    And what were the odds that he himself would detonate some ordnance, mangling his legs?
    What about the kids then?
    What about his possible life with Kathryn Dance?
    He decided that those questions were pointless. This was military ordnance. He’d end up not an amputee but a mass of red jelly.
    The chopper moved closer. God, they were loud. He’d forgotten that.
    The suspect stopped, glanced back and then turned right, disappearing fast behind a dune.
    Was it a trap? O’Neil started forward slowly. But he couldn’t see clearly. The chopper was raising a turbulent cloud of dust and sand. O’Neil waved it back. He pointed his weapon ahead of him and began to approach the valley down which the perp had disappeared.
    The helicopter hovered closer yet. The pilot apparently hadn’t seen O’Neil’s hand gestures. The sandstorm grew more fierce. Some completely indiscernible words rattled from a loudspeaker.
    “Back, back!” O’Neil called, uselessly.
    Then, in front of him, he noticed what seemed to be a person’s form, indistinct in the miasma of dust and sand. The figure was moving in.
    Blinking, trying to clear his eyes, he aimed his pistol. “Freeze!”
    Putting some pressure on the trigger. The gun was double-action now and it would take a bit of poundage to fire the first round.
    Shoot, he told himself.
    But there was too much dust to be sure this was in fact the perp. What if it was a hostage or a lost hiker?
    He crouched and staggered forward.
    Damn chopper! Grit clotted his mouth.
    Which was when a second silhouette, smaller, detached from the first and seemed to fly through the gauzy air toward him.
    What was—?
    The blue backpack struck him in the face. He fell backward, tumbling to the ground, the bag resting beside his legs. Choking on the sand, Michael O’Neil thought how ironic it was that he’d survived a UXO field only to be blown to pieces with a bomb the perp had brought with him.
    # # #
    The Bankers’ Association holiday party was underway. It had started, as they always did, a little early. Who wanted to deny loans or take care of the massive paperwork of approved ones when the joy of the season beckoned?
    Carol and Hal were greeting the CCCBA members at the door, showing them where to hang coats, giving them gift bags and making sure the bar and snacks were in good supply.
    The place did look magical. She’d opted to close the curtains—on a nice summer day the water view might be fine but the fog had descended and the scenery was gray and gloomy. Inside, though, with the holiday lights and dimmed overheads, the banquet room took on a warm, comfy tone.
    Hal was walking around in his conservative suit, white shirt andoversized Santa hat. People sipped wine and punch, snapped digital pictures and clustered, talking about politics and sports and shopping and impending vacations.
    Also, a lot of comments about interest rates, the Fed, and the euro.
    With bankers you couldn’t get away from shop talk. Ever.
    “We heard there’s a surprise, Carol,” one of the members called.
    “What?” came another voice.
    “Be patient,” she said, laughing. “If I told you it wouldn’t be a surprise, now would it?”
    When the party seemed to be spinning along on its own, she walked to the stage and tested the PA system once again. Yes, it was working fine.
    Thank goodness.
    The “surprise” depended on it. She’d arranged for the chorus from one of her grandson’s high schools to go up on stage and present a holiday concert, traditional and modern Christmas and Hanukkah songs. She glanced at her watch. The kids would arrive at about 3:45. She’d heard the youngsters before and they were very good.
    Carol laughed to herself, recalling the entertainment at last year’s party. Herb Ross, a VP at First People’s Trust, who’d injected close to a quart of the “special” punch, had climbed on the table to sing—and even worse (or