The door closed. In a matter of seconds, the ambulance was on the move. Strapped onto a stretcher, she attempted conversation with the medic seated beside her. Alison didn't want to go to hospital, the abrasions were minor, and the headache would go away. There was an investigation to pursue. She needed to get away from the crime scene, away from the prying eyes and questions of Homeland Security. The ambulance provided that escape.

"What do I call you?" she asked. "Paramedic?" She hoped flattery might elicit a more favourable response to the suggestion she was about to propose.

"Nick will be fine. I do this part-time, I'm studying to be a doctor. How are you feeling, Alison?"

"Been better, but I'm all right, the bleeding's stopped and there's no headache," she lied. "I'm really all right to go. We all know how busy the poor nurses in our hospitals are. They need fewer patients, not more. I don't suppose you can drop me off near my home, can you?"

"I'd suggest you need observation for a couple of hours. Who knows how hard your head hit the ground. Concussion is always a possibility after a head knock."

"My flatmate can look after me." Alison smiled at the thought. Her cat's sole concern was self.

"Can't do, Alison," said Nick. "You have no idea how much paperwork that would entail. But I'll tell you what you can do. Once we complete the documentation at the hospital, there's really nothing stopping you from checking yourself out. Will you be able to get someone to pick you up?"

"I'll take a cab."

"Look after yourself. And if you become nauseous or experience headaches seek medical assistance immediately."


Home would have to wait. She had so many questions, the first being, why had the location's street lighting been in semi-darkness? She considered coincidence unlikely, scepticism set in. Chance seldom played a role in Washington activities. Every happening was planned, by someone. The next question Alison pondered was what was Ashe Morgan doing in Washington, let alone in this neighbourhood? The guy was supposedly scheduled to play a semi-final in Los Angeles in a couple of hours.

Curiosity forced a change of mind. What was in the package? Perhaps she should head home, the one secure place she knew. The cab dropped her outside her apartment block. A glance up to the fourth floor produced instant fear, it was secure no more. The place was ablaze with light. When she'd left for her stroll less than an hour earlier, it was in darkness. Someone was inside. Who? Every instinct screamed it was connected to Ashe's death.

The situation was becoming more sinister by the moment. How did they know her identity let alone her address? Who was in there, the killers or Homeland Security? Why would Homeland undertake such a search? Was she, as an eyewitness considered a threat?

Could the assassins have found out who she was? Could her phone have revealed those details? She knew the answer, yes. With today's computerized technology there were very few secrets.

Who could she trust? As she pondered this question her apartment returned to darkness. Fear near paralysed her. Had she walked into a trap? Had some form of tracking device been installed in her bandaging?

Alison sought someplace to hide. She slipped into a darkened doorway. A sensor light activated, she was bathed in light. She froze and turned towards her apartment. Moments later four men emerged through the foyer door, two wore tradesmen overalls and two were dressed in dark suits. The suits had been at the murder scene. They had arrived in a Homeland vehicle. Paranoia developed. Why had they searched her apartment? What were they looking for? Was it a search or perhaps an installation of surveillance? One positive emerged; they'd not seen her. They strode away from her apartment towards an illegally parked Suburban she'd not noticed.

Would it be smarter to hand over the package and just walk away? Thoughts of the package transferred to thoughts of the victim. What happened to Ashe's body? She saw him fall. Saw the body on the ground. Moments later it was gone. She remembered. The killers had picked up Ashe's body and tossed it into their vehicle prior to speeding off. Why would they do that? Taking a dead body made no sense. Were they attempting to make some form of statement? A second alternative emerged. Was he perhaps still alive? No way, no one survived four bullets in the back. Should she make enquiries? Common sense said no, her journalistic instinct argued yes. The yes won.

Alison made a decision. She'd trust no one and she would go into hiding, for a couple of days, at least. How could she finance her disappearance? Credit cards were no longer available; their usage was too easily traceable. A check in her purse furthered her dilemma, less than $300.

Could she access her bank account tonight? Forty minutes later she entered her card into an automatic teller, the card was swallowed. A message appeared on screen. 'Account access denied.'

She found a McDonalds restaurant. She disappeared into the bathroom, concealed herself in one of the cubicles and removed the parcel from her bra. She opened it, fearing its contents. What had she become involved in?

On first glance it appeared innocuous, a cigarette packet containing a key. Folded inside the box was a scribbled note of just five words, 'beyond help, they're onto us.' A phone number sat beneath the message. She memorised the number and flushed the paper down the toilet. She re-entered the world with more questions than answers. Had she overreacted? Perhaps she should just contact Kent Campbell. She read his name on the card he'd provided. Or should she call the number contained on the note.

Alison reached for her phone. Her pocket was empty, she remembered. She'd lost it when Ashe crashed into her. Thank God for Mr Hennessey, her first editor, he had insisted every reporter carry a back-up phone.

Several minutes later she made a second call, promising her editor the story of the decade.