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TMA: Agent Moon Ch. 01

By: slyc_willie



(Author's note: The idea for this series grew out of a writing challenge I posted on the Author's Hangout, here on Lit. It began as a basic premise of being a government agent who travels back in time to fix changes made by an unknown group called the 'Rectifiers,' and blossomed from there.

The TMA – Temporal Management Agency – is a multi-national organization under the auspices of the United Nations, operating from a hidden base in Nebraska, USA. TMA agents are charged with stopping the Rectifiers whenever and wherever they strike. For unknown reasons, the Rectifiers have targeted moments in history, changing events to suit their own unguessable plans. Little is known about the Rectifiers other than the nature of their agents. They come from the future, that much is certain; beyond that, little else is known.

The agents of the TMA utilize a device called the Temporal Probability/Redundancy Field Generator – commonly referred to as the 'Tap' – to look into and travel to the past. The Tap has several limitations: there is a limit as to how long a person can remain in the past – thirteen days – as well as a limit as to how much mass – 220 kilograms –the Tap can sustain at any certain point in time.

This series uses the premise that time travel is only possible into the past, because finding a point in time to travel to also requires that we know where in space the Earth existed at that moment. It cannot be accurately predicted where the Earth will be in the future, so traveling forward along the timestream is not feasible.

Technical details aside, this series addresses the idea of time travel and what could and shouldn't be changed, if one was able to do so. There are several other authors who have their own series of stories based upon this common idea; I encourage you to look for them in the listing of Sci-Fi/Fantasy stories.)

From the Files of the Temporal Management Agency

Agent Dylan Moon, Case #1

"Director, there's a problem."

Radha Naveen sighed as she blinked open her eyes. Too much to think that I could get away with a fifteen-minute nap, she thought. She eased up from the curved leather couch in her office – a gift from her therapist – and swung her legs to the floor. Tired eyes regarded the young Swede in the blue jumpsuit uniform.

"This better be good," she said.

The young man, impressively tall and muscular, nodded quickly. "Dr. Jasper was, um, pretty animated about it." He spoke with only the slightest Scandinavian accent.

Despite her sense of annoyance, Radha could not help but chuckle at the sentry's words. "Jasper is always animated," she commented. She pushed herself to her feet, wincing at the tightness in her neck. Rubbing the base of her shoulders, she followed the sentry into the halls. The circular tunnels, dug deep below ground, had been painted in soft hues of amber and ochre, the floor green to remind the occupants of the base of grass. Radha had always considered the color scheme of the TMA headquarters a noble, but ultimately useless, gesture.

Respectful greetings met her ears as she followed the sentry. To each salutation of "Director" or "Colonel Naveen," Radha merely nodded, or muttered a non-commital return. She was well-known for her brevity and curtness; no one was insulted by her short responses.

It took only a few turns and a single level's descent before the sentry lead Radha to Looking Glass, where numerous large screens were arrayed about a central hub. Technicians in their grey uniforms were at work upon their terminals as they monitored the flashing images. More so than usual, the activity on the screens seemed very chaotic to the Director. She flinched at the erratic display.

Darting from one terminal to another, and snapping his head back and forth from one screen to another, was Dr. Phineas Jasper. The quintessential mad scientist, Jasper was a tall, lanky man with short-cropped hair the color of a blizzard – which was the best way to describe how the man acted and thought.

"What's going on, Phin?" she called.

He shot up a cautionary hand, not looking to Radha, but acknowledging her presence. "Just a moment," he said, and snapped a few words to the technicians. It was all a ramble of techno-babble to the Director. Mustering her patience – not an easy thing for Radha – she crossed her arms and waited.

Finally, Jasper looked to her, a flustered expression on his face. For Phin, that was normal, but in the five years Radha had known him, she had learned to notice the subtle differences in the doctor's expressions. "It's a major event, Radha," he said. Jasper was one of the few within the Temporal Management Agency who addressed her informally. "We're getting total cascade failure throughout the timestream."

Her surprise was not telling upon her face, save for the raising of a single, thin eyebrow. "'Total?'" she asked.

Jasper huffed. "It's incredible! Ridiculous! Dozens of events throughout time, simultaneously changed!"

Now, Radha did show some concern, stepping forward. "How is that possible?"

"Dr. Jasper," interrupted one of the technicians, a pudgy Argentinian named Cuellar. "We're getting time-locks on every event."

"WHAT!" cried Radha in alarm.

Jasper slapped his hand to his forehead in relief. "Oh, thank God," he sighed.

Radha's flabbergasted expression was clearly readable as she glared at the senior scientist. "What the hell do you mean, 'thank God!'" she snapped. "Time-locks prevent us from heading back to correct the anomalies!"

Jasper chuckled under his breath, planting his hands on his hips. "Think about it, Radha," he said. "What is the only thing that causes time locks?"

Radha frowned, thinking. Then realization spread across her features. "The presence of an agent."

"Exactly," said Jasper. "An agent of the TMA. One we haven't taken on board yet, otherwise we would have been able to figure out who it was through a simple head count."

Radha pursed her lips. "So the Rectifiers have killed a future agent," she mused. "That doesn't make any sense. By killing him, they've erased every mission he'll ever complete. No wonder there's a total cascade failure. So many events in history changed . . . no doubt some of them contradict other events."

Jasper nodded again, observing the scenes. "Well, the good news is that we have thirteen days to find and save him."

Radha gritted her teeth a moment. "And the bad news is, if we don't find him, reality as we know it is going to end."

"Actually, it will have never happened," corrected the scientist.

Radha frowned. "I hate it when you do that," she said.

Jasper snickered quietly. I know . . . .

***

Oh, damn, this is the best fucking blowjob I've ever gotten . . . .

Watching her soft pink lips as they slowly devoured his cock was an inspirational sight, especially considering how she kept her iridescent blue eyes on his while she did it. Not even when the head of his throbbing shaft eased into her throat did Corinna show any evidence of discomfort. In fact, her lips curled in a tiny smile as they wrapped around the root of his cock.

"Jesus," muttered Brandon, stroking the blonde's short, thick hair. The massaging motions of her tongue, combined with the caressing, swallowing action of her throat made for the most sensuous pleasure the young man had ever known.

Keeping her eyes on her lover's face and his cock firmly seated in her gullet, Corinna ran her hands up and down the man's well-defined torso and thighs, lighting up his nerves. She felt his fully-laden balls draw up against her chin, evidencing a premature eruption. Too soon, the woman thought, and slid her mouth back up his shaft, leaving it glistening with her saliva.

"Fuck!" groaned Brandon, writhing beneath her. He arched his back, trying to return his cock to the warm wet depths of Corinna's throat. But with a wicked grin on her slightly-lined face, she pushed him back down, kissing the tip of his cock as it slid free of her lips. Her eyes flashed with interest as his phallus remained standing straight.

"Damn, you're really hard," she commented, fluttering her tongue all around the bulging head. "You really wanna cum, don't you?"

The young man squirmed. "Hell, yeah, I do!" he exclaimed, giving Corinna a pleading look. "God damn, baby, where'd you learn to give such good head?"

Corinna sat up between Brandon's spread legs, a self-impressed smile on her face. Her small breasts still sat high and firm on her chest, thanks to a strict exercise regime. Uncommonly fit for a woman in her late thirties, Corinna Bellew's muscular tone was obvious in her strong arms, lean legs, and flat stomach. The college-aged man beneath her certainly admired her body as his eyes drank her in.

"Well," she said, lightly stroking his slick cock with both hands. "I have been giving blowjobs for about as long as you've been alive, sweetie."

Brandon laughed, but his mirth faded somewhat as he noted the skull-and-dagger tattoo on her left shoulder. "Were you really, like, a commando and all that?" he asked.

Corinna bit her lip, cocking her head as she stroked the young man's phallus in a progressively tighter hand-over-hand motion that had him sighing in pleasure. "Eleven years active duty," she said. "Eighteen Delta."

Brandon frowned. "Eighteen what?"

Corinna winked as she bent over him again. "Special forces, baby," she whispered, then engulfed his cock once more, suddenly sucking hard and fast, bobbing her head up and down. Her hair fluttered around her head like wings, hiding her face from view. But the insistent sucking sounds of her mouth, punctuated by a series of muffled moans, were just as erotic to Brandon as watching her.

"Uhn! Oh! Fuck!" he groaned through clenched teeth, feeling his cock tingle in the woman's mouth. Sorority girls certainly never gave head like this, he knew. He felt only the tight, hot, wet pulling sensations; no teeth at all. Just erotic, velvet smoothness.

Corinna slurped her mouth off his cock, sitting up once again. Her mouth was wet, her face flushed with arousal and the effort she was making. Her eyes blazed with lust as she pumped Brandon's cock rapidly.

"Do you wanna cum, baby?" she asked.

He moaned and managed to croak out a response: "Please!"

Corinna grinned mischievously. "Oh, yeah?" she purred. "And just where do you wanna cum, baby? Where do you wanna shoot your load?"

Brandon trembled at Corinna's dirty talk. He humped his hips up, watching the woman's wet fists pumping up and down. On each upstroke, her thumb rubbed the underside of his crown, making him flinch. "Oh, God," he mumbled, feeling the pressure build.

"Come on, sweetie," cooed Corinna, lowering her head slowly, keeping her eyes on his face. She licked her lips slowly. "Tell me where you wanna do it . . . ."

Brandon huffed, his body tensing, vibrating. "Y-y-yes, do it like that," he said hurriedly.

"Like what?" she whispered hotly, smacking her fists up and down. Her mouth hung open just over his cock.

"Oh, Jesus!" groaned Brandon, arching his back. "Suck it, baby! I'm gonna cum!"

Corinna grinned, loving the way this young man capitulated to her, the way he so desperately needed her to bring him pleasure. He was at her mercy, she knew, and there were times when she loved to draw out the torture, really make them beg. But at the moment, Corinna wanted Brandon's orgasm just as much as he did.

"Uhmm," she moaned, wrapping her mouth tightly around the straining head, stroking the shaft rapidly with one hand while gently kneading his taut testicles with the other. She lashed her tongue around the slit of his cock and kept up a steady stream of yearning moans, all of which heightened Brandon's release to the fullest.

There came an initial warm spurt of musky fluid, and Brandon slapped his hands to the mattress as he cried out in ecstasy. His back arched deeply, but Corinna stayed with him, keeping just the head of his cock in her mouth. She savored the bittersweet flavor of him, then moaned again as a near-torrential flood of thick sperm filled her mouth.

"Oh God oh fuck shit yeah yeah yeah!" babbled the young man, shaking in pleasure. His face held a pained expression as he watched Corinna devouring him, and with the way she sucked and tugged on his now incredibly sensitive cock, the sensations were made exquisitely intense. His cock began burning as Corinna stopped her stroking and massaged the head and first inch with her lips and tongue.

"Stop baby stop baby," he pleaded, reaching for her head with his hands.

Corinna laughed softly through her nose, glowing with pride at how she had reduced this gorgeous Adonis beneath her to a begging, squirming mass of complacent meat. She sat up once more, softly stroking Brandon's softening cock. A long trail of whitish fluid dangled from her pursed lips, then hung off her chin. She didn't wipe it away as she swished Brandon's cum in her mouth, letting it soak into her cheeks. Eventually, the strand snapped, falling onto her upper thigh.

Brandon panted for breath, watching his lover with dazed interest. He had been a little hesitant about letting an older woman pick him up earlier that evening, but now he was incredibly grateful for his good fortune. He doubted he could go back to giggling, inexperienced college girls after this night.

"Shit, you're a kinky babe," he muttered, then laughed drunkenly, letting his head fall back. His vision was blurry, his ears plugged with fluid. He heard little more than the relentless pounding of his own heart, slowly receding with the passing moments.

Corinna laughed through her closed mouth again, then tapped his abdomen to get Brandon's attention. Wearily, he lifted his head, giving the mature beauty a questioning look. Locking his eyes with hers, Corinna made a show of sucking in her cheeks and swallowing the young man's cum. It slithered warmly down her throat, and Corinna sighed, smacking her lips. She stuck out her tongue as further proof that not a drop remained, and grinned wickedly.

Brandon swooned. "Oh, fuck . . . ."

Corinna giggled, then crawled up over the young man, leaving small, soft kisses from his balls to his neck. She didn't try to kiss him on the lips; 21-year-old college kids, in her experience, were none to fond of the taste of their own semen, however slight it might be on her mouth.

"Mmm, that was nice, baby," she whispered in her young lover's ear, brushing his skin with her lips.

"That was . . . incredible . . . what it was," Brandon said with a euphoric laugh. "I'm spoiled for life." He brought up lazy hands and clumsily caressed Corinna's slender body.

She lifted her head and smiled on him, brushing her hair back behind her ear. "Well, I hope you're not done, yet, big boy," she said. "'Cause now you owe me."

Brandon grinned. "Gimme about five minutes, babe," he promised.

Corinna emitted a catlike purr as she stretched atop her young stud, straddling his thighs. She felt the sticky head of his cock against her protruding clit. "Would it help if I told you how I want to fuck you?" she asked.

Brandon shuddered in arousal. God damn, this bitch is hot! he thought. "Tell me."

"Well, first I wanna – fuck!" she exclaimed as she heard the muffled 'Mission Impossible' theme trilling from her jeans laying on the floor of the cluttered apartment. With a huff, she pushed herself up and scrambled off the bed, uncaring in her nudity.

Brandon sat up in alarm. "So do I, babe," he said, watching as the nude woman bent and took up her cell-phone from its pouch on the belt of her jeans. "Hey, come on, Cori. It can't be that imp—" he stopped abruptly, intimidated by the stern look of warning she gave him.

Corinna snapped open the phone and listened. She did not say a word as for about ten seconds, then flipped the tiny device closed. She sighed heavily, then took up her jeans, stepping into them.

"What!" cried Brandon, jumping to the floor. "You're leaving?"

Corinna gave the young man a sheepish look as she snapped her jeans closed around her waist. The aroma of her aroused pussy was still palpable around her. "Sorry, stud, but duty calls," she said simply, snatching up her pale blue blouse and leather jacket.

"Well . . . will you come back later?" he asked, a hopeful look in his eyes.

Corinna smiled patronizingly as she buttoned up her blouse. "Probably not, baby." She slipped her jacket around her shoulders, looked for her flats.

Brandon sputtered, genuinely hurt, blinking in astonishment as Corinna sat on the edge of the bed and pulled her shoes on. "Wh-what . . . what the fuck do you do that they gotta call at eleven-thirty at night and you just gotta go?"

Corinna arched an eyebrow. "I'm not gonna tell you, and you don't wanna know," she said.

Brandon scoffed, rolling his eyes. But the expression on the older woman's face told him she was not joking. He swallowed nervously.

Corinna smiled and stood, nearly as tall as her naked lover. She gave him a peck on the cheek, then impulsively fondled his dangling dick. With a quick squeeze upon his tumescent shaft, she grinned and stepped back. "Maybe we'll catch up some day," she said, opening Brandon's bedroom door. "You still owe me a fuck."

Leaving the young man gape-mouthed and wanting, Corinna headed through the apartment the college student shared with his room mate. There were a couple of other young men on the couch, playing a video game, yet all three abandoned the game and watched Corinna as she strode through the room. There was no doubt that they had heard Brandon through the thin walls as Corinna had pleasured him. Envy was unmistakable in their eyes.

"'Night, boys," she said with a wink, then opened the door and left.

Three pairs of eyes, and three slack-jawed faces stared at the door as it closed. No one noticed Brandon enter the room, sweat pants keeping him decent, until he spoke.

"Now that's a real woman, guys," he said, puffing his chest.

"Damn . . . ." the other three said in unison.

***

The drive from Omaha to the small town of Discovery took about an hour, long enough for Corinna to masturbate to a couple of small, yet essentially satisfying, orgasms to satisfy her insistent libido. Passing through the ghost town that Discovery (population 3,142) was at such a late hour, she finally arrived at a small building surrounded by cornfields, adjacent to a sealed-over missile silo that had been built in the sixties.

The parking lot of the 'Amalgamated Products' building held about two dozen other vehicles, the majority of them the same standard, unimpressive, commonly-seen cars such as Corinna's Celica. There was a reason for that: anonymity. The Temporal Management Agency existed because its members were so mundane on paper so as to escape the notice of anyone looking for them.

With a slightly frustrated grunt, Corinna stepped out of her car and headed to the entrance. While she understood that her life as a TMA agent meant she was entrusted with secrets and responsibility reserved for only a select few, it still irked her that her evening had been interrupted.

Couldn't they have called just half an hour later? Even fifteen minutes would have been enough! Jeez . . . .

She stepped through the revolving glass door at the entrance, knowing that hidden scanners were reading her body heat, mass, and basic molecular composition. Down a garishly-lit hallway she walked, past a security desk that was ever actually manned, to a small door at the far end.

She gripped the stainless steel doorknob, knowing that sensors within it were reading her palm print. It took a few seconds, but then the door unlocked and she found herself in a bare, ten-by-ten-foot room.


TMA: Agent Moon Ch. 01



"Command," she said aloud. More hidden sensors read her voiceprint, further confirming her identity. By now, the base would know it was her, and the elevator would—

There came a gentle humming sound, and Corinna felt the room descend. The further down she went into the earth, the more her concerns for her night faded away. She was 'on the job,' now. Only thoughts concerning her role within the TMA, as a seasoned field agent, entered her mind.

When the wall separated at the other end from the door, and Corinna heard the conversational buzz of technicians, soldiers, and scientists echoing through the halls, she was a single-minded woman, making her way through the tubular tunnels that had been dug through rock more than two hundred feet below ground. Not one of the uniformed personnel she passed – and gave short nods or quick greetings to – gave a second look at her mode of dress; the field agents of the TMA were seen as casual, eccentric, and often irreverent. At least one was even known to stroll through the halls with a katana strapped to her back.

Finally, Corinna found herself at the arched entrance of the Command Room, where she passed between a pair of burly, stoic sentries in their blue coveralls and automatic rifles held at attention. The table within the room was large enough to seat a dozen people, yet only two figures occupied a pair of chairs at the far end: the Director, Col. Radha Naveen, formerly of the British Armed Forces, and the American scientist, Dr. Phineas Jasper. The dark-skinned colonel, with her long, thick hair braided behind her, gave Corinna an expectant look as she entered.

"Agent Bellew," she said by way of greeting.

Corinna's upper lip twitched slightly in irritation; The Director's decidedly European accent, combined with her penchant for brevity, made her pronounce Corinna's last name as 'blew.' At the moment, Corinna actually found that funny, considering what she had finished doing when she had been summoned.

Corinna nodded professionally, standing at attention. "Director."

The Director smiled thinly, gestured to the unoccupied chairs. "At ease, Captain," she said, referring to Corinna's previous rank with the US Army. "Have a seat."

Corinna gave another nod, then slid out a chair at the end of the table and sat. She waited for Colonel Naveen to begin.

"You have a very impressive record with the TMA," the Director continued, folding her hands over a closed file atop the table before her. "In four years, you have earned a near-perfect record."

"Thanks you, Ma'am," Corinna responded.

"There is a very serious situation at hand," Naveen said, her eyes steady as she watched the slightly-younger woman. "The Rectifiers have apparently targeted and terminated an agent of the TMA. He was killed nine hours ago. It has taken us that long to determine who it was they killed."

Corinna bristled slightly. She had come to see her fellow agents – few as they were – as brothers and sisters. The thought of one of them having been killed by a Rectifier agent sent her pulse pumping. "Who was it?"

The Director opened the file before her. "Dylan Moon," she said, glancing perfunctorily at the documents before her as she flipped through them slowly. "Seven-year veteran with the San Antonio police department, twenty-two-year vet with the FBI. He has a phenomenally impressive record."

Corinna frowned, searching through her memory. "Director," she said at last. "I know everyone in the TMA. I've never heard of Agent Moon."

Dr. Jasper grinned his usual irreverent smile as he lounged in his chair. "That's because he hasn't been recruited, yet," he said.

Corinna frowned in confusion, an unspoken question in her mind.

The Director continued: "Dylan Moon is not yet a member of the TMA, though he will be, and must be," she said, stressing that single word. "His future actions need to be insured, if the timestream is to be maintained. For that reason, we have selected you to contact him, bring him in, and convince him that his future lies with the TMA."

Corinna nodded cynically. It would not be the first time she had been assigned a mission based upon her skills at seduction. For a moment, she allowed herself to remember those scant few days as Jack Kennedy's nurse in 1943 . . . "Of course," she said.

Col. Naveen leaned forward on the table. "We will need you at the top of your game, as they say," she said. "Mr. Dylan Moon is an aged man. He is currently 73 years old. Despite what you may think, your . . . bedroom manner is not specifically required for this mission. Your skills as an agent, a combatant, are."

Corinna took a breath. Strangely enough, she felt immense pride that she had been chosen not because she was 'good in the sack,' but because she still possessed the skills honed through years as a special forces soldier. Corinna smiled genuinely. "Thank you, Director," she said. "I won't let the TMA down."

"I sure as hell hope not," Jasper chimed in with a typically flippant reply. "'Cause if you screw up, it's everyone's ass."

***

Six hours later, Corinna stepped into the Tap Chamber, clad in her assigned attire. She carried no weapons on her, as was typical for an agent being sent through time and space. In fact, once she arrived at her destination, twenty-seven hours in the past and more than a thousand miles distant, she would blend in well with the local population of Seguin, Texas, a small town just at the fringes of the San Antonio metropolis.

Corinna shifted a bit in the tight Wrangler jeans, frilly pink blouse, and brown leather cowboy boots into which her jeans were tucked. She looked dubiously to the edge of the brim of the straw cowgirl hat that sat perched on her head. "Are you sure about this?" she asked aloud, knowing that anything she said could be heard in the control booth just above and behind her.

Col. Naveen's voice echoed through the hidden speakers in the spartan room: "Your best bet is to contact him at his ranch," she said. "He had placed an ad in the local newspaper asking for a general assistant. Horse riding and breaking, basic ranch management—"

Corinna spun around and faced the broad window above her, through which she could see Col. Naveen. "I haven't ridden a horse in almost fifteen years," she said. "The only riding I'm good at is on a horizontal stallion, if you get my meaning."

Even through nearly opaque indestructible plexiglass and a distance of more than thirty feet, Corinna could see the smirk on the Director's face. "Well, that may come in handy, too," she said. "Look, all you need to do is get close to him – by whatever means necessary – and protect him from the Rectifiers. Dr. Turgenyev's speculations are that he will agree to join the TMA once the truth of the Rectifiers has been made known to him."

Corinna's shoulders slumped a bit as she sighed. "Is Dr. T sure about this?"

At her question, a stoop-shouldered man in a white lab coat appeared beside the Director. As always, Dr. Andrej Turgenyev looked like he was six seconds from death, with his pale face and sunken eyes. He leaned toward the microphone on its long, flexible stalk.

"Yes, I am," he said simply. "All of my permutations lead to the same result."

Corinna sighed. Had those words come from anyone else, she would have been skeptical. But Turgenyev was the reason the TMA existed. Jasper may have perfected some of the Tap's applications, but the theories and workings behind the Temporal Probability/Redundancy Field Generator – the device that allowed time travel into the past possible – were almost entirely due to the work of the Lithuanian scientist. Since Hawking, since Einstein, since Tesla and Newton, there was no greater scientist than Turgenyev. As far as scientific applications went, the frail-looking genius was God.

Corinna nodded and stood in the center of the room, at the point where the four ominous-looking nodes mounted on the dark-painted walls were directed. "Okay. I'm ready."

A moment later, the faint whir of powerful motors could be heard beyond the walls, building up in pitch and power. Corinna felt the tingling sensation of static electricity playing over her body.

"Godspeed, Agent Bellew," came the Director's voice.

Corinna grimaced. I gotta teach her how to say my name right, she thought, just before the brilliant arcs of electricity lanced forth from the nodes and lit up the room with their brilliant display. Corinna convulsed for a brief moment, until the blue-grey halo of light opened around her, consuming her. Corinna gritted her teeth, held out against the pain . . . .

And vanished.

***

With a gasp of pain mingled with relief, Corinna fell to her hands and knees on the ground. She felt the nausea, and the trickling, prickling sensation of electricity across her body, waited for it all to fade. After four years of enduring such jaunts through time, Agent Bellew no longer gave in to the need to vomit, and her equilibrium returned rather quickly. Following a few deep breaths – inhaling the aromas of pine, mesquite, and horse manure – Corinna righted herself, and stood, finally opening her eyes.

She found herself on a country road, flanked on either side by broad horse pastures. A look down one direction gave her nothing but a winding road that vanished with the horizon; but a glance the other way showed her a large ranch house, no more than a hundred meters distant. There was an old truck – from the seventies, she figured – and a slightly newer sedan sitting on the simple gravel driveway near the front porch.

"Okay, Cori, here we go," she said to herself, and touched the implant behind her right ear. "Testing, testing, testing," she repeated, until her voice carried the inflections of an East Texas accent. She smirked, then rolled her eyes. Jeez, now I'm a Texan, she thought, and strode forward.

***

Just before knocking on the frame beside the screen door, Corinna made sure the synthflesh mask she wore was smooth and uniform. The goal had been to look like some fresh-off-the-farm country girl, not a middle-aged thirtysomething with crow's feet and smoker's wrinkles. A young woman would rouse less suspicions than a woman of Corinna's true age. And while she had the body to perfect the ruse, age had still begun to show around Corinna's eyes and mouth. Thus, the synthflesh mask.

Satisfied that she looked the part, Corinna effected a girlish stance, pushing her chest out and her firm buttocks back, and knocked on the frame.

After another knock, the door opened, and Corinna was surprised – pleasantly so – to see a well-built man, in his late twenties or perhaps early thirties, muscular but not overly so, with short black hair and a somewhat oval face. He had shimmering dark brown eyes and a confident curl to his lips.

"Can I help you?" he asked. His voice held no territorial accent; he sounded to Corinna as if he had been raised in the Midwest, or perhaps even the East Coast.

"Er, yeah," Corinna said, the implant converting her responses into typical East Texan parlance. "I'm here 'bout the ad y'all placed in the paper. Wantin' reliable ranch hands an' all."

The young man looked Corinna over briefly, but not in a way that he seemed to be assessing her sexually. It was more of a clinical look. "Been around horses much?" he asked.

Corinna smiled broadly. "All my life," she declared. "Hell, last year's rodeo, I broke three broncs myself."

He chuckled softly, slowly smiling as he pushed open the door. "What's your name?" he asked.

Corinna stepped up, letting her outstretched hand lead the way. "Cori," she said. "Cori Bellew."

His smile grew. "Bellew," he repeated, pronouncing her name correctly. "That's a good Texas name. I'm Dylan."

Corinna's smile faltered slightly, but she hid it through a forced smile as she squeezed the young man's hand. Dylan, she thought. That's Agent Moon's first name. But if this guy is seventy-three years old, I'm a freaking nun . . . .

"Nice to meet'ya, Dylan," she said.

***

He lead her into the spacious kitchen, after a quick tour of the living room, study, and dining room. The house had all the expected clutterings of a man in his seventh decade: pictures, most in black and white, framed in ornate rectangles and ovals on the walls, showing men and women from a bygone era as they posed stoically. A venerable gramophone sat upon a claw-footed table near a glass-doored display case filled with porcelain figurines and old wooden hand carvings. The patterns of the furniture, rugs and even the carpet suggested an eye from decades past. Even the wallpaper looked like something only seen in movies from the mid-sixties.

"Iced tea?" Dylan asked as he turned his back to Corinna, opening an avocado-colored refrigerator.

For a moment, the TMA agent could not help but admire the trim, athletic form of the man before her, the way his jeans – obviously, he had worn them often for several years – conformed themselves to his taut buttocks. Quickly, however, Corinna returned her mind to business.

"Sure, thanks a bunch," she said, frowning at her own words. This damn implant's making me sound like an idiot, she thought.

Dylan turned back, holding a pitcher in his hand. His green eyes sparkled as he smiled, an almost patronizing look. "It's Lipton," he said. "Still want some?"

Corinna blushed despite herself. "Sure," she said.

Smirking, he poured two glasses, set one before Corinna. "So, Cori," he said. "Let's get to the point. I'm a pretty busy guy, and I need someone who can help maintain the ranch. I've got eleven horses, a few of them geldings, some pretty old. I—"

Corinna interrupted after a brief sip of the sweet tea. "Um, I hope y'all will pardon me," she said. She worked her mouth and eyebrows for a moment. "But I thought Mr. Moon was, um, kind'a up there, know what I mean? Not that I'm complainin' one bit, I just, you know, wanna make sure I'm talkin' to the right guy."

Dylan paused a moment, his face unreadable. "Are you from around here?" he asked.

Corinna shrugged. "Well, kind'a. I grew up in Texarkana, been livin' in Hondo," she said, calling upon the information the implant gave her.

Dylan's lips split in a smile, and he looked down, chuckling softly as he rolled the glass of tea in his hands. "Nice town," he said, then lifted his head, meeting Corinna's eyes. "Yeah, I guess you might have heard of my old man. He passed away about ten years ago, left me the ranch."

Corinna smiled with both sympathy and self-admonishment. "Aw, jeez, Mr. Moon, I didn't know. I'm really sorry."

Dylan shrugged. "Life goes on," he said. "Anyway, this is my place, now. No reason to change the name of the ranch, since we have the same initials. I am a junior, after all." He winked as he spoke the last few words.

Corinna smiled. "True enough," she said, even as thoughts began tumbling through her mind: Okay, so this is Dylan Moon's son. Is he the guy I'm supposed to save? And if so . . . damn, Old Man Moon must have been at least forty, maybe even fifty when he knocked up the wife . . . .

"Let me give you a tour of the place," Dylan said, setting his glass aside and offering his hand. "See if you feel up to what I need done around here. I'm not making any promises; I've got a few more interviews before I make my decision."

Corinna rose, taking Dylan's hand. The man had a firm grip; his fingers were visibly callused. No stranger to hard work, is Mr. Dylan Moon, Jr., she thought. She found his eyes mesmerizing, his presence powerful and commanding. Even after a lifetime of being around men used to being in command – few of whom had earned Capt. Corinna Bellew's respect – she realized she was impressed by this simple man. And perhaps even a little aroused.

***

He showed Corinna around the ranch, took her through the barn and introduced her to Hal, Emma, Wildfire, Rusty, Milky Way, Stardust, and the other horses. Most extended their muzzles in invitation, and Corinna giggled as they ate sugar cubes from her palm. She patted their neck and flanks, stepped into the stalls with some of them. She was glad for her own basic experience with horses and the technical information the implant provided. Between that and her gift for acting, she felt she was convincing Mr. Dylan Moon, Jr., that she knew a thing or two about horses.

And then came the question she had been dreading.

"Care to take a ride?" he asked as they both petted Stardust's neck. The roan mare snorted as if offering her own opinion.

Corinna blinked briefly, calling upon the information within her implant. "Sure," she said at last. "I'll take Stardust."

Dylan nooded. "And I'll take Rusty."

***

Corinna was surprised at how well she took to the saddle. Even though she had not ridden a horse since she had visited her uncle's farm after college, it felt comfortable to grace the stiff leather and gather the reigns in her hands. And, thanks to her memories and the implant, she was able to guide her mount in a way that seemed natural. After only a few miles, Corinna was truly enjoying herself, and rode the mare with relative ease.

Returning to the barn, Dylan rode up beside Corinna, an approving smile on his face. "It's been a while since I've seen someone handle a horse like you," he said.

Corinna blushed. "Been a while since I really enjoyed it," she said honestly, then checked herself. "I-I mean . . . you know . . . ."

Dylan laughed. "Riding broncos isn't the same as taking the saddle on a broken horse," he said. "I know. All my horses are bridle-wise. You won't have to do any breaking here."

Corinna laughed. "Thank God!" she exclaimed. "I've had all I want in them damn rodeos." She cast a sly look to Dylan, more than conscious of the burgeoning attraction that had been fomenting over the previous two hours. "So . . . you sayin' I got the job?"

Dylan chuckled softly, letting his eyes wander over the apparently young woman. "Just one more thing," he said.

Corinna bit her lip, anticipating what that 'one more thing' might be, wistfully hoping that it lay between Mr. Dylan Moon, Jr.'s legs.

***

He slapped a thick, sudsy sponge into her hand and smiled upon Corinna. "I need to know that you understand how to tend to the horses after a ride," he said, stepping back as they stood in the barn's causeway. "Come back to the house when you're done."

Corinna said nothing as she watched Dylan walk past her and out of the barn. The sponge splattered thick, soapy suds on her boots. Her fantasies of all-out sex in the hayloft were completely dashed, replaced with redirected frustration. She looked to Rusty in his pen, who snorted and pawed at the ground. Her eyes narrowed.

"Oh, shut up," she snapped, opening the gate and stepping close to the stud. "And don't get any ideas . . . ."

***

She was sure she reeked of horse-sweat as she made her way back to the ranch house, letting herself through the back door of the kitchen. However, whatever gamey aroma she may have absorbed from her new equestrian friends was completely overwhelmed by the aroma of pan-fired bacon, eggs, and sizzling onions.

"All done?" Dylan asked with a glance over his shoulder as he stood over the stove.

Corinna licked her lips for a moment, again admiring the man's firm cowboy ass in his snug jeans. "For now," she managed to say.

Dylan smiled, nudged his chin. "Take a seat," he said. "You've done enough work for today."

Corinna did not have to be told twice. She headed to the small table in the kitchen, covered with a laminated floral-print cloth, and sat down. Two place settings had been set, with a bottle of red wine in between. Quietly, Corinna watched as Dylan moved about the kitchen, getting this and that. She admired the movement of his muscles beneath thin layers of well-worn denim and the cotton shirt he wore. He had broad shoulders, a strong back, thick, muscular thighs. Everything about the man exuded an essence of power of one kind or another.




TMA: Agent Moon Ch. 01



Eventually, he brought the sizzling pan over to the table and poured generous portions of scrambled eggs and dark, minced sausage onto both their plates. From the fifties-style oven, he took an earthenware pot, and opened it before Corinna to reveal steaming tortillas. He set Tabasco, red pepper flakes, butter, and a dish of shredded Monterey Jack cheese on the table between their place settings, then sat down.

"Dig in," he said with a glowing look upon his smiling face.

For several minutes, they ate in silence. Corinna was famished, she realized. She stuffed as much as she could into her first tortilla and devoured it almost desperately, in between gulps of bitter, yet fresh, iced tea. Dylan watched her with a smile as he tended more laboriously to his meal.

"Do you like it here?" he asked after Corinna had finished her first tortilla and was loading up the second.

She paused, made an effort to slow her movements. She felt her cheeks blushing, which she knew would be translated through the synthflesh. "I really do, Mr. Moon," she said. Her eyes flashed up and met his. "I'd really like to work under you . . . I mean, for you."

Dylan pushed the last of his tortilla into his mouth, chewed slowly as Corinna waited. He wiped his fingers on a napkin, then dabbed at his mouth. Finally, he gave Corinna a direct look.

"Riding and grooming the horses is only a part of the job," he said. "There's feeding them, and keeping the stalls clean. Letting them out and keeping an eye on them while they play. Not to mention that Hal's getting up there in years, and he sometimes needs a little help relieving his bowels."

Corinna held down her revulsion at the images that last statement brought to mind. "I been around, Mr. Moon," she said confidently. "There ain't been nothin' a horse could do – good or bad – that I ain't seen." She held Dylan's gaze, hoping her ruse – and her stomach – could convince the man.

Dylan's face became stoic and unreadable then as he leaned back, regarding the 'young woman' with a clinical eye. Corinna stayed silent, letting the man make up his mind. She understood that anything she said at that point would be seen as being either desperate or hyperbole.

Finally, he smiled, and relaxed. "There's something about you, Cori," he said. "Something I can't quite figure out. But at the same time, I trust you. So, here's the deal: two-fifty a week; you stay here, rent-free. I have a spare room upstairs. Up at five every morning, you take care of the horses, ride them, watch them, groom and feed them. You're done by three every day. You don't have to worry about the house; I'll take care of that. Deal?"

Corinna grinned and offered her hand. "Deal, Mr. Moon," she said.

He took her hand, and they shook. "Call me Dylan," he said, then winked. "'Mr. Moon' makes me feel old."

Corinna laughed softly. "You got it."

***

The room was pretty basic; a simple, queen-sized bed, an old dresser and matching vanity that had obviously been made at least a good three or four decades before. There was a musty smell of age in the room that was not unpleasant, but neither did it do anything for the sexual fantasies Corinna had been harboring all day for her 'employer.'

Just as well, she thought, taking up her phone once she returned from the shower down the hall. She let the clean white towel that she had wrapped around her body drop as soon as she closed the bedroom door, and paced back and forth in the nude, peripherally watching shafts of moonlight as they lit up her bare legs, hips and abdomen.

"Agent Bellew," she said, then gave her security code. There was silence on the other end for a few moments before a voice filled her ear.

"Have you made contact?" came the Director.

Corinna was momentarily surprised at the sound of Col. Naveen's voice. On every other mission, whenever she'd called Command, it had been a case worker or mission specialist she had spoken with. Never the Director herself.

"Eh . . . yes, ma'am," Corinna said, composing herself quickly and falling into 'debriefing' mode. She forgot about the phonetic implant as she continued: "But I think y'all got yer information a bit screwed up, y'know?"

"How's that?" asked the Director, not bothered in the least by her agent's speech patterns.

"Well, the guy I met sure ain't no old fart," Corinna prattled. "He can't be more'n thirty or so. He told me he's the junior to his daddy, and that papa kicked the bucket 'bout ten years back."

There was a pause on the other end. "We have no records of Dylan Moon's death," the Director finally said. "Can you verify that the man you met is Moon's son?"

Corinna sighed. "I suppose I could get a DNA sample somehow," she said. "Might be tricky, though. But there's no way in hay-ell that this dude's seventy-three years old. Plastic surgery can do wonders, sure, but Dylan's got a bod that no old man could have."

"Perhaps he was lying about his father's death? To protect him?"

"That's what I been thinking," said Corinna. "'Course, now I gotta get Junior to fess up 'bout the old man's whereabouts, and soon."

"You only have eighteen hours, Agent Bellew," the Director reminded.

"I'll find Dylan Moon," vowed Corinna. "Agent out." She ended the call, regarding the device in her hand. More than merely a cell-phone that could call the future (well, only TMA headquarters), it was also a temporal tracker, able to find people and objects that have traveled through the past . . . or people whose DNA profiles were on file with the TMA. The only problem, of course, was that Moon's DNA was not yet on file. Still . . . .

She activated the tracker, and the tiny screen transformed to a grid with a red line sweeping around a central point. The range of the tracker was only about thirty meters, and as Corinna had expected, it showed nothing. With a sigh, she snapped it closed, then regarded the bed dubiously. The sheets looked clean, but the blanket was obviously old and a little musty.

Corinna had long before gotten into the habit of sleeping in the nude, but eyeing the bed, images of spiders and roaches entered her mind. Retrieving her shirt and panties, she slipped them back on and tentatively pulled back the covers. Surprisingly, the bed was comfortable and snug, a good thing given the dropping temperature that was making its chilly way through the old house's walls.

Still, despite the comfort, it took a while before Corinna fell asleep.

***

Years as a soldier had made Corinna used to rising early in the morning. During basic training, she had gotten up at 4:30 every a.m., and that had become habit. Corinna's idea of 'sleeping in' was to slip from bed at seven.

Dylan was waiting in the kitchen, toast in the oven and bologna in a pan. Fried bologna was not Corinna's idea of a good breakfast, but she neither wanted to insult her host nor give away that she was not a local Texas girl. So she devoured the two sandwiches Dylan made for her, finding them surprisingly tasty, and washed the meal down with milk.

"Ready for work?" he asked once the plates were cleared away.

Corinna winked, admiring her employer in his rugged jeans and white T-shirt that hugged his muscular chest and arms. Nope, definitely not a seventy-three-year-old man, she thought.

"You bet'cha!" she exclaimed enthusiastically.

***

The vagaries of a day's work on a farm were frustrating and strenuous, but Corinna found it to be a challenge. Never one to back down from anything presented to her, Corinna jumped feet-first into her new job. She found the horses easy to work with, and sensed that they liked her. She had to admit that she started to become attached to them almost right away, especially Rusty and Stardust.

However, as the morning waned and the afternoon waxed, Corinna became anxious. A quick glance to her cell told her she had less than four hours before Dylan Moon, Sr., was to be killed. And she still did not know where the old man was. And 'Junior' was not making it easy for her to spend time with him, not even for just a minute or two. He was busy repairing the corral fence, then the well water pump, then he was chopping wood . . . all while Corinna had her hands full with the horses.

Just after one o'clock in the afternoon, Corinna was antsy. She was prepared to go for broke and tell Dylan the truth, just to get him to tell her where his father was. But before she could take such a desperate leap, Dylan approached her as she was grooming Milky Way in the barn.

"Care to take a ride?" he asked, startling her.

Corinna spun around, reflexes kicking in instantly. But she refrained from adopting her practiced defensive stance once she realized who it was that addressed her. "Dylan," she said, breathing in as her eyes wandered once more. Sweat had soaked through his T-shirt, molding the cotton to the contours of his body. His dark, curly hair was wet as well, and he exuded a sweet aroma composed of natural musk and the shower gel he had used that morning. The scent inflamed Corinna's senses, sending a static charge directly to her sex. She actually felt her nipples bulging, and knew that her own skimpy top, made almost transparent by sweat, did little to hide them.

He arched an eyebrow, his own gaze drifting as well. "Expecting someone else?" he asked casually. He stepped closer, wiping his brow with the back of his hand. The sweaty sheen on his face was outrageously sexy to Corinna. For a moment, all thoughts of her mission were cast aside, replaced by fantasies of two sweaty bodies rolling in the fields behind the barn . . . .

"Of course not, Dylan," she said. "Um . . . did'ya say 'ride?'"

He smiled and nodded. "I did, indeed," he answered, and indicated the horses in their stalls. "Pick one."

***

Despite the fact that she felt her backside bruising, Corinna was grateful for the ride that took them out into the fields. The wind felt delicious, cooling the sweat on her body, and the aromas of the countryside were rich and sweet. She was beginning to understand the allure of living such a simple life, without offices and cars and paved city streets. Just a simple dwelling, a strong horse, and the sounds and offerings of nature.

When I retire . . . . she mused with a smile.

"Cop, or government?" asked Dylan, shifting comfortably in Rusty's saddle.

Corinna's smile vanished instantly, as a spike of anxiety stabbed through her chest. She tightened her grip on Milky Way's reigns, casting her eyes down. "Am I that obvious?" she asked.

She heard a soft chuckle coming from him. "The accent and the clothes fooled me at first," he said. "You're pretty good. So . . . FBI? Come to check on me?"

Corinna frowned slightly at his words, thinking. Slowly, she looked in his direction, settling her eyes upon him. "Why would the FBI check on you? It was your father that was an agent, right?"

He pursed his lips, which were curled slightly in a smile that now seemed less cocky and more forced. "The sins of the father, and all that," he said.

Corinna turned in the saddle to face him. "Dylan, where is your father?"

His gaze bore into hers. "I told you; he's dead. I can even show you his grave, if you'd like."

She nodded. "I'd like."

***

The grave lay over a mile away, across acres of rolling hills, near the edge of a grove of dogwoods. A simple carved headstone sat before a slight mound of earth grown over with grass and weeds. Obviously, it had been there for quite some time.

Corinna stooped as she read the inscription on the tombstone. "'Dylan Gabriel Moon. 1934-1997. A patriot out of time.'" She straightened and gave the man beside her a quizzical look. "Interesting thing to inscribe on one's headstone."

Dylan worked his lips. "He always thought he'd been born in the wrong era," he said dismissively. "Fancied himself a cowboy."

"How did he die?"

Dylan shrugged casually. "He'd been wounded a few times in the line of duty. They finally caught up to him. Liver failure, dialysis. It all eventually took it's toll."

Corinna studied Dylan's face as she said, "I'm sorry."

He shrugged. "That's life," he said, then smiled thinly. "I think sixty-three years is enough for one life." Dylan took a breath, then faced Corinna fully. "You still haven't answered my question. Are you with the FBI, or someone else?"

Corinna smiled in admonishment, shaking her head a little. "It'd take a damn sight time to explain, Dylan," she said.

He chuckled at her words. "Look, you can drop the fake East Texas accent, doll," he remarked.

Corinna arched an eyebrow. "'Doll?'" she asked. "Funny thing for a young man like you to . . . say . . . ." her words trailed off as she noticed a glowing red dot make its way up Dylan's shoulder, to his neck, then to his temple. Instincts kicked in instantly, and she grabbed a fistful of his shirt. "Down!"

The younger man reacted more quickly than Corinna would have expected, flattening himself to the ground just as a deep, muffled report echoed across the Texas prairie. A good forty or fifty meters beyond the tombstone, a twisted dogwood tree exploded under the impact of a powerful shell. Shredded bark flew in all directions as the upper half of the tree tumbled to the ground.

"Shit!" exclaimed Corinna as she and Dylan scrambled against each other behind the tombstone. "They're early!"

Dylan shot the woman an alarmed look. "'Early?'" he echoed.

Her eyes bore into his. "Is your father really dead?" she asked hurriedly.

He frowned. "Aren't we laying on his grave right now?"

"Are we?"

There came a ringing sound as a chunk of stone was torn from the top of the headstone. A millisecond later, another explosive burst shattered high amongst the trees in the grove, raining down scorched leaves and powdered wood.

"This isn't the best cover," remarked Corinna, chancing a look around the edge of the tombstone. She spied a dark-clothed figure approaching over the rise of a hill, a good hundred or so meters distant. Its arms cradled an imposing rifle, looking more like a small piece of artillery than anything else. "Damn it! Come on!"

Dylan nodded quickly. "The horses!"

Quickly, the two of them darted from the safety of the tombstone, just as a third shot transformed it and some of the ground around it into an explosion of dirt, dust and pulverized stone. Corinna winced as she felt something bite into the back of her left leg, but she stumbled only slightly.

"Stay ahead of me, and head back to the barn!" Dylan shouted. "It'll make you a smaller target!"

"Me?!" shouted Corinna as she sprinted across the field. "It's you they're after!"

"What!"

But just as Corinna was about to respond, as they were mere paces from the two tethered – and now startled – horses, Milky Way was suddenly knocked aside, an explosion of blood erupting from its left flank. With a hideous cry, the horse tumbled to the ground, spilling entrails onto the grass. Screaming in pain, the horse's legs thrashed in the air. Its eyes were wide with fear and pain and lack of comprehension.

"Oh, Jesus!" exclaimed Corinna, faltering slightly at the gruesome sight.

"Run now, cry later!" barked Dylan, grabbing Corinna's arm and dragging her toward Rusty. Smoothly, he leapt over the stallion's rump and into the saddle, then reached for Corinna. Despite the horror she felt at seeing an animal slaughtered so callously, she kept her wits and focused on the moment.

With Corinna seated behind him in the saddle, her arms tight around his waist, Dylan slapped the reigns and dug his heels into Rusty's flanks, spurring the powerful steed into motion. Behind them, Milky Way thrashed through its last few moments of life, emitting painful cries that would be forevermore burned into Corinna's mind.

***

Rusty's charge carried them swiftly away from their attacker, despite a few more shots lobbed in their direction. The ground exploded in their wake as Dylan guided the horse home. They were miles from the house; it would take a lone man on foot an hour to reach them.

At the barn, Dylan barked orders, sounding like a combat sergeant or tactical officer. "Get Rusty inside, and lock the doors!" he shouted, slipping from the saddle and jogging toward the aged truck parked before the house.

Corinna did not hesitate; a lifetime of following orders compelled her to obey, and there was something about Dylan Moon, Jr., that exuded command and confidence. So she leapt to the ground, grabbing Rusty's reigns. The horse trotted readily into its stall, perhaps understanding that it would be safer within. She gave the steed a quick pat and a smile of thanks, then ran back outside.

"Come on!" yelled Dylan, snapping down the hood of the truck. He ushered Corinna on until she ran around the passenger side of the truck, then jerked open the driver-side door and got behind the wheel.

"I sure hope you feel like talking, doll," growled Dylan as he turned the key. The engine roared to life; tires spun, kicking up dirt and gravel. "'Cause I want to know what the hell's going on!"

Corinna slammed the door closed and hung on as the truck surged forward. "Okay, look; the whole 'doll' thing is so outdated, got it?" she hissed through her teeth.

Dylan grimaced as he drove. "Fine," he snapped. "I don't care what you want me to call you—"

"How 'bout Corinna?"

He shot her a fierce look. "How about 'bitch who won't tell me what's going on!'"

Corinna glared back, ready to unleash a verbal tirade, but both her and Dylan's attentions were abruptly focused behind them, as a large, black, late-model four-by-four burst through the fields and onto the road, engine howling like the roar of a predatory lion. Dirt and dust flew behind its spinning wheels as it fought to catch up. Only the silhouette of the driver could be discerned behind the wheel, yet neither Corinna nor Dylan doubted that the man within was the same one who had fired upon them.

"Floor it!" barked Corinna.

"Who is he!" shot Dylan, even as he pressed the accelerator all the way into the floor.

"Not 'he,'" spat Corinna, turning in her seat to look out the back window. "'It!'"

Dylan frowned. "What are you talking about?" he shouted.

But before Corinna could answer, there came rapid-fire reports from the vehicle behind them. The rear window shattered; bullets impacted against the strong steel frame of the truck. Dylan glanced to the rear-view window, seeing the figure within the SUV behind them with its hand extended out the driver-side window, clutching a pistol.

Dylan cursed under his breath and jerked the wheel slightly, making the truck veer back and forth. Bullets whizzed by, sometimes glancing off the body of the truck, but often missing their mark.

"It's called a Rectifier!" yelled Corinna. "It ain't human! It's a synthetic organism! There're five different grades, but I really don't think you want me to go into that right now!"

"'Synthetic?'" asked Dylan as he guided the truck in a zig-zag pattern upon the road. "You mean, a robot?"

"More'n that!" cried Corinna, watching over her shoulder. Her eyes widened suddenly. "Get down!"

Reacting to instinct, Dylan doubled over, just as his windshield exploded. Shards of glass rained all around, cutting into his scalp, his back, his right hand. Abruptly, he jerked up, shifted gears, and poured on the speed. A cloud of dirt was cast behind him, momentarily hiding their adversary.

"What the fuck was that!" he cried, oblivious to a trickle of blood running down the side of his face.

"Explosive round!" explained Corinna. "The last bullet in a fifteen-round mag—" she ducked down as more bullets shattered glass and ricocheted off steel. The mirror outside her door exploded dramatically, showering her with tiny shards. She brushed plastic dust off her arm as she continued. "Look, this thing means business, darlin', but I can get you outta here. We just gotta get away from that thing!"




TMA: Agent Moon Ch. 01



Dylan ground his teeth, steering the truck down the road. Sharp eyes caught sight of a dirt road up on the left, and he took it, slamming the brakes and jerking the wheel so that the truck fishtailed onto the dirty driveway. A cloud soon formed behind them as the tires kicked up dirt. The gunfire ceased almost immediately.

Corinna grinned. "Nice move," she said approvingly. "But I reckon he'll compensate. Them Rectifiers—" she frowned, then tapped behind her ear. Abruptly, her voice changed, losing the East Texas inflections. "Some Rectifiers can see in infra-red. Makes them more efficient killing machines."

"What happened to your voice?" Dylan asked.

Corinna sighed. "I'll tell you later," she snapped. "After we get the hell—"

A new barrage of gunfire cut her off. Most of the bullets slammed into the back of the truck bed, but one found it's way through Corinna's seat back. She cursed in pain as the bullet tore through the flesh high up on her left arm. She slapped a hand over the wound, immediately applying pressure.

"You all right?" asked Dylan.

She seethed. "Not the first time I've taken a hit," she muttered, then slid down as more bullets whizzed through the air. Dylan zig-zagged the truck once more, making most of the shots miss. However, an explosion erupted on the tailgate, signaling the last round of the Rectifier's weapon.

"Can you drive?" he asked quickly, turning sharply as the road turned. They were heading back toward the house, he knew.

"What?" asked Corinna as she ripped her shirt, tearing off a long strip of fabric from just below her breasts.

"Drive! Can you drive!"

"Yeah! I can drive the damn truck! Just give me a sec!" Holding one end of the strip in her teeth, she quickly wrapped her wounded arm. The pink fabric quickly became stained with blood, but the flow stopped.

"Then slide over," commanded Dylan, waiting until Corinna's foot replaced his own on the accelerator before pushing himself into the tiny back seat of the cab. Corinna grunted as she slid behind the wheel.

"What are you doing?" she asked Dylan.

"Tackle box," he replied, crouching low in the seat. A fresh burst of gunfire resulted in impacts around the shattered window frame above his head. Corinna guided the truck with skill, keeping down in her seat. The radio in the dash erupted with a shower of sparks.

"I sure hope you have more than fishing lures in that box!" she cried.

Dylan chuckled darkly as he flipped the old red metal case open. "I think I may have something useful," he commented.

Corinna glanced over her shoulder as Dylan lay across the narrow back seat, clutching two blue steel revolvers in his hands. She grinned. "Go fishing with magnums often?" she quipped over the staccato sounds of yet more gunfire. She felt bullets whizzing past her head.

"I save these for the really big fish," he said with a cocky smile. "Now. There's going to be a dip in the road up ahead. With the rain we've been getting, I bet it's a small pond right now. Tell me right before we hit it."

Corinna trained her eyes forward, seeing where the road fell past a low rise. Beyond, water glistened in the afternoon sun, evidence of, as Dylan had said, a pond about twenty feet across. "Almost there!"

"Good. Floor it!" shouted Dylan, then dove without hesitation out the back window.

What the hell? wondered Corinna as she glanced to the rear-view window. Dylan flattened himself within the bed of the truck, staying below the edge of the tailgate. You crazy son of a bitch . . . I hope you know what you're doing. She shoved her foot to the floor, making the truck's engine roar in response. The truck bounced as it thundered up the rise.

"We're about to go airborne!" she yelled.

In the truck bed, Dylan grabbed a canvas strap, looping it quickly around his upper arm. He felt the truck climb the short rise and gritted his teeth in preparation. A moment later, gravity lurched through him as the truck left the ground. He bounced in the bed of the truck, momentarily weightless as ridged metal beneath him left his back. He watched the black 4X4 as it hurtled closer. The driver had both hands on the wheel.

But then the pursuing vehicle vanished as the truck came back down. Dylan felt the impact of the truck slamming back into the ground, right in the midst of the small pond. Water flew up on either side of him. Then the truck was through it, tires gouging out dirt and gravel once more.

Quickly, Dylan slid to the end of the bed and slammed both his booted feet into the tailgate. Intending only to knock it down, the tailgate instead flew away, dancing across the road in the truck's wake.

And there, some twenty meters or less behind, was the black 4X4, just clearing the rise before the pond. Lighter than Dylan's venerable truck, it soared higher and further in the air. That was what Dylan had been waiting for. Extending both arms, he aimed the revolvers toward their target and pulled the triggers as fast as his fingers could move.

The twin magnums bucked only slightly in his hands as Dylan kept his aim true. The front grill and one of the headlights on the black 4X4 shattered under the powerful impacts. The bumper dented, pock-marked with impacts. Both front tires exploded.

The 4X4 returned to earth, creating a terrific eruption of water as it slammed into the small pond. The ruined tires forced the truck down in the front, rims catching on mud and rock. The velocity of the vehicle caused the front to dig into the ground and the rear to lift up, carried by momentum. For a moment, the truck skidded out of the pool of water, perpendicular to the ground, before toppling forward onto the roof. Windows shattered and metal crumpled amid a cloud of dust and dirt.

Corinna slammed on the brakes, jerking the wheel so that the truck fishtailed and skidded to a halt. For a moment, she merely stared at the results of Dylan's actions. The 4X4 rocked back and forth on its crumpled roof, smoke trailing from within the engine compartment. She was impressed.

"Dylan?" she queried, looking to the back of the truck.

Dylan chuckled, sitting up in the truck bed. "Feel like I just rode the Rattler without the safety bar down," he commented. "But I'm fine." He gestured to the overturned 4X4. "Think that took care of your, uh, rectum-wiper?"

Corinna smirked. "Rectifier," she corrected. "Got any more bullets for those things?"

Dylan nodded and slid off the back of the truck. "Tackle box," he said.

Corinna reached into the back, opening the red chest, finding a box of .357 magnum shells. With the bullets in hand, she stepped from the truck and joined Dylan, setting the bullets on the frame of the truck bed.

"So, are you going to tell me what's going on?" he asked as he reloaded one of the revolvers. The other he had slipped into the front of his jeans.

Casually, Corinna took the pistol from Dylan's jeans and reloaded it as well with practiced moves. "I work for the Temporal Management Agency," she said. "About twenty-five hours ago, I was sent here to stop your father from being assassinated."

Dylan arched an eyebrow. "How did you know it was going to happen?"

Corinna gave him a look. "Because, where I come from, it already happened," she said, then headed down the road, holding the revolver beside her right leg as she approached the 4X4.

A quizzical frown on his face, Dylan followed, jogging to catch up. "Don't tell me you're from the future," he said dubiously, coming up beside Corinna.

She nodded. "Yup," she confirmed as they reached the ruined vehicle. She pointed with her weapon to the twisted, black-garbed body inside. "And so is that."

Dylan sighed ruefully. "Just when I thought I was going to get some ans—" he began, but cut himself off as the figure, half-hanging out of the 4X4, moved, lifting it's head and dragging a crooked arm across its chest. But before the pistol it held could be brought to bear, Corinna snapped up her revolver. The single report echoed across the prairie. The expressionless head jerked back, the back of the head exploding with a shower of sparks and scorched wires.

"You can only kill a Rectifier android by destroying the head, or removing it from the body," she said calmly. As the two of them watched, the air around the inert android wavered and shifted, then seemed to fold in upon itself. Another moment, and all evidence of the automaton's existence was gone.

Corinna sighed. "They always do that," she informed. Her eyes drifted up to Dylan's. "So, do you believe me now?"

Dylan stared at her, unsure of what to think. "That thing was from the future," he said. "And so are you?"

Corinna nodded. "I know, hard to believe." She faced him. "We have a lot to talk about, Mr. Dylan Moon."

He held her gaze for a long moment, then nodded. "I guess we do."

She smiled, looking him over. "You know, for an old geezer, you're looking pretty good," she remarked. "What's your secret?"

Dylan pursed his lips. "Yeah, we do have a lot to talk about."

***

Agent Bellew stood outside the observation window of the medical bay, looking at Dylan as he sat shirtless in a chair. A lab-coated medical tech was leaning over him, pulling adhesive pads attached to wires from his torso. Corinna found herself shifting on her feet. Damn, he's got a gorgeous chest . . . .

She felt someone step up beside her, glanced to the Director.

"Hard to believe he's seventy-three," Col. Naveen said. "But DNA is pretty convincing."

Corinna frowned in amazement. "But look at him. He sure as hell doesn't look seventy-three."

Radha nodded. "No, he does not," she agreed. "And every test likens his body to that of a man less than half his actual age. Very little cellular decline. He's a medical mystery, to be sure."

"Does he age at all?"

"According to Dr. Ziske, yes. But at a much slower rate than the rest of us. His life expectancy must be in the hundreds."

Corinna whistled low. "Wow. Imagine what he'll see in his lifetime."

Radha smiled and winked at her agent. "Thanks to you, he now has a second chance."

Corinna scoffed. "Thanks to me? I was just a spectator."

"Somehow I doubt that," the Director said. She touched Corinna's arm. "Good work, Agent Bellew. Debriefing in twenty minutes."

Corinna nodded with a smile. "Yes, Ma'am."

***

The three of them sat around the head of the table in the Command Room. Corinna and Dylan had both changed into more suitable attire. While far from formal, slacks and leather jackets, button-down shirts and silk blouses were improvements over sticky, sweaty T-shirts and jeans. Likewise, Corinna's wound had been cleaned and dressed.

"There are only a handful of people who know about the TMA," the Director explained to Dylan. "This is a multi-national facility, answerable only to the UN Security Council. We have members from almost every member of the United Nations."

Dylan nodded. "I noticed that. Good thing I speak a few languages."

Radha fixed Dylan with a piercing look. "I guess seven decades gives you plenty of time to learn."

Dylan stared back, unintimidated by the Director's strong dark eyes. "If you're going to ask me how I'm seventy-three with the body of a man half my age, I don't know," he said. "It took me a long time to figure out that I wasn't aging like everyone else does. When I hit forty and didn't have any wrinkles, I started wondering. By the time I was fifty, and people started making comments, I figured I had to do something. Started putting grey highlights in my hair, then dyed it white. But I still wasn't really showing my age."

"So you retired from the FBI," Corinna said. "Told people you died, added 'junior' to your name."

Dylan nodded. "I'd been away from Seguin for almost thirty years," he said. "So when I came back and told everyone I was Dylan Moon's son, no one blinked an eye. Opened a new account, had my retirement checks sent there . . . then politely informed the FBI that Dylan Moon passed away. No one ever noticed that I was using the same social security number."

Radha tapped her fingers on the tabletop. "And now you're here," she said pointedly.

Dylan took a breath, let it out slowly. He gave a crooked smile. "If I hadn't seen that . . . Rectifier robot," he said. "If I hadn't come here through a . . . 'time portal,' or whatever you call it, I might have thought you were all nuts. But now you tell me that if I don't join you, if I don't become an agent, then dozens of events in history will be changed for the worse. I don't really have much of a choice, do I?"

Radha and Corinna exchanged looks. The field agent said nothing, deferring to the Director.

"There is always free will," Radha said. "Now that your premature death has been averted, we were able to narrow down the events in history that you would have been involved with. We have over twenty agents. Any one of them could be sent on the missions to which you would have been assigned."

Dylan pursed his lips in thought. "Maybe," he said. "But would they succeed? We already know I would."

Radha smiled slowly. "That would appear true. Still, the future is never written in stone, even when the future is the past."

Dylan chuckled. "Now that's something I never figured I would hear."

The Director leaned back in her chair. "It's up to you, Mr. Moon," she said, feeling a need to address the man as her elder, despite his appearance. "You have no obligation to—"

"I'm in," he said abruptly.

Radha blinked. "Are you sure?" she asked, surprised by Dylan's quick acquiescence. 

Dylan smiled. "According to your own doctors, a conservative estimate on my age expectancy is over two hundred years," he said. "Do you really think I could spend the next twenty decades on a farm? Besides . . ."

Dylan leaned forward on the table, rubbing his hands. "I became a cop, then joined the FBI, for a reason. Maybe it was the ideology of a young man in 1955, but I felt that I could help people. I wanted to. I'd never had a family; my mother died giving birth to me and I grew up as a bad kid in a post-Depression orphanage. When I finally gained some maturity, I made a decision: to have courage and integrity. For almost thirty years, I upheld those ideas . . . until I realized that I couldn't go on without raising questions."

He lifted his eyes and looked first to Radha, then to Corinna. "I've spent the last twenty-plus years pretending to be someone else, living under the radar for fear that I might become someone's lab rat. Now, you're giving me the chance to do what I was born to do. Again."

Corinna smiled, feeling impressed, inspired, and aroused. "You'd be a welcome addition, Dylan."

"Indeed," agreed Radha.

Dylan smiled, looking to the Director. "When's my first mission?" he asked.

***

His quarters were spartan, but Dylan had expected that. The walls were earthen in color, with two wall sconces that supplied soft, indirect amber lighting. There was a typical military-style bed, a desk, and a locker box for his possessions.

I'm gonna have to do some redecorating, Dylan thought, tossing his duffel on the bed. At the least, I'll need a bookshelf . . . .

"Agent Moon?"

Dylan turned to see Corinna standing in the doorway, one arm raised and propped seductively against the frame. A catlike smile graced her lips, showing her slight dimples and smoker's wrinkles. Her soft jade eyes were tickled by the faintest of crow's feet.

"Sounds good, doesn't it?" she asked, stepping into the room. "'Agent Moon.'"

He chuckled softly, then turned away, unpacking his singular bag. "You look better without the mask," he said. "What's that stuff called, again?"

"Synthflesh," Corinna responded, coming around him. She sat on the edge of his bed, looking up at Dylan. "This isn't going to be anything like you've experienced before, you know."

His eyes flashed to her as he smile slyly. "Are you talking about being a TMA agent, or . . . us?"

Corinna breathed in, trying to control her simmering libido. Her lips curled. "Am I that obvious?"

His smile grew. "A little."

Corinna looked down at her hands, aware of their shaking. She rubbed them together. "I guess a few decades of law enforcement lets you know how to read people."

Dylan nodded. "Maybe," he said. "How's your arm?"

Corinna touched the wound through her blouse. "Not bad. The bullet went right through. And with the new anti-inflammatory meds, healing is a lot quicker."

Dylan smiled. "Good to know." He laid out the few shirts, slacks and jeans he had packed, then straightened, digging his hands in his pockets. "So, is this a non-smoking joint?"

Corinna chuckled. "Officially, yes. But I've never been a PC kind of girl."

Dylan produced a silver cigarette case with a smile, snapped it open. He watched as Corinna took a cigarette, then flipped open the matching Zippo. For a moment, they both smoked in silence, letting the air grow hazy with smoke.

"You know, when I was younger," Dylan said. "There was smoking everywhere. Restaurants, department stores, theaters. The first time I went into a restaurant and the hostess asked me if I wanted smoking or non-smoking . . . oh, well. 'The times, they are a-changing.'"

Corinna laughed softly. "Try growing up in the early eighties," she said. "When everything was changing."

Dylan nodded, his smile unwavering. "I loved the eighties, even if I was supposed to be an old man," he said. "Reagan was a great president."

Corinna nodded, curling her fingers on the mattress, trying to contain her desire. "Yes, he was," she agreed. "Last of the great ones—"

"I want you."

Corinna breathed in, her cheeks and neck blushing. Her jaw worked for a moment as she struggled with the words in her head. "Wow," she said at last.

Dylan stepped before the younger woman, reached with a single hand and lightly cupped her chin. "Is fraternization allowed?" he asked.

Corinna breathed out. "Even if it wasn't, I'd still fuck you," she said in a heated tone, giving him a meaningful look. 

***

They undressed each other slowly, standing beside the bed and watching each other as buttons were popped and zippers tugged. Corinna's cheeks reddened as she separated the fabric of Dylan's shirt and let her hands wander over his muscles. He did not have the chiseled look of an obsessive body builder; rather, he possessed the sort of naturally strong body gained through a combination of genetics and active living. The hair on his chest was soft and curly, a novelty for Corinna, who had gotten used to young pretty boys who shaved their body hair.

Neither made a noise other than soft sighs as their lips brushed, then pressed together. Their kissing became more passionate, with Corinna pressing herself to Dylan. His shirt fell to the floor behind him, and his hands came up to remove hers.

Corinna stepped back once her small breasts were revealed, unabashed in her nudity. She smiled cattily, teasing her engorged nipples with the tips of her fingers. Dylan smiled, his own arousal showing through his slacks. Corinna eyed the bulge, lowered herself to the bed.

"Come here," she whispered.

Dylan did so, stopping just before the topless woman as she sat on the bed's edge. She tugged gently on his unzipped slacks, grinning at the lack of underwear beneath. She licked her lips at the sight of Dylan's impressive cock, angling down over thick testicles. Her hands tested the weight, the feel of it. She felt the shaft grow against the palm of her hand.

"Let me know if I do something you don't like," Corinna said, looking up at Dylan as she leaned in, slipping her tongue past her lips.

"No worries so far," Dylan said, then sighed softly as Corinna licked up and down the length of his shaft. The warmth of her breath, the firm wetness of her tongue, quickly brought him to his full length.




TMA: Agent Moon Ch. 01



"Mmm, that's good," she whispered, her lips fluttering against the tip of his cock. She licked sensuously just beneath the crown, then slowly sucked him in, pushing her mouth down. Her hands roamed over his thighs and pelvis, the tips of short nails scratching his firm buttocks. She sucked softly yet firmly upon his shaft, letting the smooth head nudge against her throat. Dylan caught his breath, touched her hair.

Corinna slipped her mouth back, leaving Dylan's cock shiny. She licked the head quickly with a playful smile. "You like that, huh?" she asked, watching his face as she tilted her head and sought for his balls with her mouth. She sucked them tenderly, pulling with her lips.

"Very much so," he sighed, pressing her head against his groin. Corinna murmured in approval, stroked his cock with one hand while she continued paying attention to his musky sacs. She loved the way they felt against her tongue, the taste of his pliable skin. Becoming more and more heated, Corinna pushed her chin between Dylan's thighs and tickled the patch of skin beneath his orbs with her tongue.

"Corinna," he said at last, gently pulling on her head. Reluctantly, she pulled back, her mouth wet, and looked up at him with glazed eyes. Dylan smiled. "Lay back."

Corinna eyed his cock, wanting more of what she had tasted. But she wanted to be naked, as well, and the expression on her lover's face – desirous, commanding, firm yet wanting – was irresistible.

Quickly, she lay back, jerking down her slacks as Dylan removed his boots and socks. He straightened just as Corinna, nude save for her skimpy lace panties, lifted her hips to remove the undergarment.

"Allow me," he said, and leaned over her, kissing Corinna once more upon the lips. This time, it was a driving, crushing kiss, with tongues slipping into mouths. Corinna moaned needily, gripping Dylan's back. She felt his cock against her inner thigh, then against her damp pussy through the panties. She was nearly ready to forget foreplay, just to have him inside her.

But then he was leaving a trail of kisses down her neck, nipping at the skin there, making Corinna hiss in pleasure. She ran her fingers through his short dark hair as he moved lower, hunting her nipples. Corinna panted and whimpered, more aroused than she had felt in years. A short, high-pitched cry escaped her throat when Dylan's mouth closed around one of her nipples, his teeth lightly scraping the dark pink nub.

"Oh, Jesus, Dylan, you've got me so hot," she breathed, grinding against him. "Can't remember when I've been so . . . turned on . . . ."

For a moment, he lifted his head and smiled up at her, gem-like brown eyes glittering. "And we're just getting started," he said.

Corinna let out an impassioned moan, then impulsively curled up, grabbing Dylan's head. She smothered his mouth with hers, panted as she pulled back. "Do whatever you want with me," she hissed.

He simply smiled, then slid down her body, planting kisses upon her firm stomach. His tongue traced the edge of her panties; the aroma of her sex was rich and ripe. Impatiently, Corinna lifted her hips, wanting the last barrier between them removed. With a soft laugh, Dylan bit gently into the fabric, nipping her clitoris through it in the process. Corinna whimpered at the sudden sensation, then sighed with relief as he pulled the panties down her thighs.

Wantonly, Corinna parted her thighs, revealing her treasure. Dylan eyed the moist lips of Corinna's pussy, licking his way up her taut thighs. Unlike the majority of women, Corinna kept her pubic mound shaved smooth, yet left soft, dark blonde fur upon her vulva. Dylan found the novelty erotic, and he moved in closer, inhaling her fragrance.

Corinna whimpered in anticipation as her lover's face neared her moist sex. But just when she was about to feel those delicious lips upon her own, Dylan lifted and climbed onto the bed, moving around so that he lay atop her, framing her head with his own muscular thighs. Corinna grinned, eagerly reaching for his cock, directing it down toward her mouth.

Mouths attached to genitals at the same time, and both Dylan and Corinna groaned as they began licking, sucking, lapping at each other. Muffled moans filled the room, mingling with the sweet, cloying aroma of the lovers' passion.

Corinna's hips began rolling, then bucking, after only a few moments. She pulled her mouth from Dylan's slick cock with a gasp as her orgasm began to wash through her. She grunted, gasped, and moaned as she came, shoving her cunt hard against Dylan's mouth, clutching his thighs desperately. With a final squeal of pleasure, Corinna grasped Dylan's cock by the base and took it deep in her mouth, all the way into her throat. She shook against him, relishing the feel of being so totally filled, the weight of his balls on her nose, while languishing in the thrills of Dylan's tongue and lips.

Abruptly, he pulled off her and turned about as Corinna lay dazed and heaving for breath. Orgasmic blush had turned her cheeks, neck and breasts ruddy. She gave Dylan a dreamy look as he knelt between her legs. "I want you," she said raggedly.

He lifted her legs, kissing her knee. "I know," he said, then pushed forward with his hips. His cock split her lips apart and slowly burrowed within her warm, slippery tunnel. Corinna shuddered deeply, arching her back and clawing at the sheets as she was so pleasantly invaded. She could feel every inch as his cock stretched her walls, could feel the throbbing of his shaft, and finally, the coarseness of his pubic hair and the press of his pelvic bone against her clitoris.

"Oh, God!" uttered Corinna, her voice strangled. Her arms flailed across the bed, pulling at the sheets and pillows. Dylan's hands gripped her thighs, lifting her off the bed as he pushed into her again and again. The tempo increased, and soon, he was slapping against her. He held her legs against his chest, licked and bit at her ankles.

Corinna came again, her body tensing, then spasming, then relaxing. She grabbed a pillow and covered her face as she screamed in release. Her pussy clenched hard around Dylan's driving cock, urging his orgasm to meld with hers. But the older man's stamina held out.

She tossed the pillow away and glared up at Dylan, her face sweaty and flushed. "Oh, Jesus Christ," she grunted. Her hands grazed his chest as he stayed buried within her, breathing deeply. Slowly, he pulled out, making her wince in momentary disappointment.

"Turn over?" he asked, although it seemed more of a command to Corinna, one she gleefully obeyed. Refueled by her orgasm, she rolled over quickly and propped herself on hands and knees, arching her back deeply. She gave a lusty look over her shoulder as Dylan's strong hands caressed her cheeks.

"Come and get it, tiger," she goaded him.

With a quick thrust, he shoved back inside her, then leaned over Corinna's body as she gasped at the sudden, blissful intrusion. His breath was hot against her ear. "Like this?" he asked, rolling his hips, driving into her over and over.

She trembled against him, then grabbed his arm and sucked, then bit, at the inside of his elbow. "Fuck yes," she huffed. "God, baby, fuck me . . . fuck me . . . oh, Jesus, fuck me all fucking night . . . ."

Dylan reared back, slipping his hand over her shoulder, to the nape of her neck. He gathered a handful of short, thick blonde hair and jerked her head back, making Corinna all but scream. "I planned on it," he growled, pumping faster and faster, making her cheeks quiver slightly with each impact of his hips.

"Oh, God, yes . . . ." whimpered Corinna as she felt another orgasm building. "Cum with me. Cum with me!"

Dylan grunted, pounding as hard and fast as he could, finally feeling his own release begin. With a last, deep thrust, his cock spasmed deep inside Corinna's womb. The feel of his thick rush of warm semen triggered Corinna's orgasm, and she howled her pleasure at the top of her lungs.

For a long moment, they were frozen, locked together, delirious and timeless with their shared passion. Both bodies twitched with aftershocks. Slowly, They relaxed together and fell onto the bed, Corinna's lithe, sweaty body pinned beneath Dylan's. But the weight of him was not unpleasant. She relished the feel of him, the aroma of him . . . of them. Together.

"D-Dylan?" she asked after an eon of shared, panting breaths.

"Yes," he breathed out.

"Don't . . . don't move," she said, smiling giddily. "I wanna feel you like this . . . for as long . . . as I can."

He kissed her damp neck affectionately, Making Corinna purr. "I'm not going anywhere, baby," he whispered.

Eyes closed, basking in the glow of their lovemaking, Corinna smiled.

Epilogue

In a dark room out of time, several figures sat in the shadows about a large, circular table. They surrounded a large, shimmering globe that hovered above a dais, across the surface of which flickered numerous images in an apparently chaotic manner.

"So Dylan Moon was saved, as predicted," came one voice.

"Yes. The pieces are beginning to fall into place," spoke another.

"There are still many variables to take into consideration," offered a third.

"There always were."

"This path is riddled with risk and uncertainty. Are we sure this is the wisest course of action?"

There was a long pause before the first voice spoke once more.

"Only time will tell."

. . . to be continued . . . 



TMA: Agent Moon Ch. 02



This second installment in the adventures of the Temporal Management Agency's most enigmatic operative is a long one. There is more story than sex, which is a departure from much of my work on Lit. But for those of you who want more than just the 'action,' I hope you will appreciate this. So get comfortable, pour yourself a drink, and enjoy . . . .

***

Agent Corinna Bellew stood in the doorway of the gymnasium, arms folded angrily across her chest. She stared upon the man as he went through practiced katas on the thin, hard mat. Her features were hard-set; her teeth ground against each other. What the Director had told her that morning did not sit well with Corinna.

"It has to be done," Col. Naveen had said.  "There are some things we don't have any choice in."

"You could have told me sooner," Corinna had responded, with more than a little impunity.  "It's been almost two weeks."

"If we had discovered this sooner, I would have told you." The Director's eyes had been hard. "No one expected you to actually form a relationship with him."

So it's my fault, thought Corinna ruefully, watching as Dylan Moon tumbled and moved across the mat. He looked delicious in just his sweat pants, whirling escrima sticks in his hands. Delicious . . . that was a word that came commonly to the veteran agent's mind whenever she thought of her lover. Everything about Dylan filled her with desire. His strength, in both body and spirit, his appearance, his unique and fascinating life . . . .

He's seventy-three years old, but he looks like he could have graduated college last week, Corinna mused. I have the best of both worlds with this man.

Her therapist would have a field day with the way Corinna thought of Dylan. For years now, Corinna had gotten into the habit of seducing men who were barely old enough to drink legally. Their age and enthusiasm were seductive to her. They reminded her of when she had been young, free, and wide-eyed. They helped her forget the horrors she had seen as a Special Forces officer with the United States Army, of the things she had witnessed through her jaunts in time.

If she could no longer be innocent, then at least she could share time with ones who made her feel that way, if only through the experience of their young bodies. But now, here was a man, chronologically twice her age yet younger in other aspects. He had experience, skill, knowledge . . . and he made her feel like no other man ever had before.

She was in love with Dylan Moon, she knew, or at least as close as she would allow herself to be, at any rate. And that love, that knowledge, was as much painful as it was thrilling.

With a whirl of the ribbed combat sticks, Dylan ended his practice and straightened. He did not look to Corinna as he spoke. "What's wrong?"

She took a breath, let it out heavily as she stepped into the room. The musky, manly aroma of his sweat flooded her senses. She felt a twitch of arousal between her thighs. Her libido was so easily triggered around him, she had come to realize.

"Nothing. I was just watching you," she said.

He gave her a small smile along with a sidelong look. "Maybe we haven't learned everything about each other, yet," he said. "But we've learned a lot. I can tell when something's bothering you."

She smiled, forcing it out. "It . . . It's nothing, really. Just some mission details from an old case." She stopped before him, touched his chest. Her cheeks colored a bit. "God, you're sexy when you're like this."

He held the two escrima sticks in one hand and took hers with the other, lifting them so he could kiss her fingers. His brown eyes bore into her own blue orbs. "Are you sure it's nothing?"

For a long moment, Corinna remained silent. She was mesmerized by his attentions. No man had ever made her feel so submissive. She was a consummate soldier upon the battlefield, rough as rawhide and untenable as a bull . . . yet around Dylan, her knees felt weak and her heart palpitated.

"Nothing we need to worry about right now," she said, insinuating herself closer, sliding her legs against his. She was aware of the heat of her sex, all but burning through the denim she wore, and of the protruding stiffness of her nipples against her slim top. She yearned for him, even though it had only been a few hours since their coupling that morning.

Dylan smiled, graced her chin with his fingers. He kissed her gently, tasting her lips. Corinna responded with a slight whimper, slid her hands over his strong shoulders to pull him close. She sucked hungrily upon his lips, his tongue.

"Mission debriefing in one hour," she whispered.

Dylan smiled, stroking the small of her back, letting the tips of his fingers slip to Corinna's buttocks beneath the waist of her jeans. "So we have an hour?"

Corinna grinned. "Uhm-hmm," she affirmed, then stepped back, taking his hand. Her eyes blazed with lust. "You need a shower, big boy. Come on."

Dylan's eyebrow arched. "Are you gonna scrub my back?"

She bit her lip wistfully. "Oh, I'm gonna take care of every last inch of you, sweetie," she breathed.

***

Corinna moaned deeply, bracing her hands against the shower walls, her mouth hanging slack as she felt the thick length of Dylan's cock push into her from behind. She propped one foot against the stiff glass of the shower enclosure, sighed at the sensations of her lover sliding back and forth inside her. Dylan's hands gripped her taut, narrow hips, then moved up to cup her small breasts. Corinna purred and moaned again at the feel of his lips and hot breath at the nape of her neck. Shivers rippled down her spine.

"Don't stop fucking me, baby," she murmured, hanging her head, her short blonde hair slick and dripping from the water. "Make me cum . . . please."

Dylan nipped at her dewy earlobe. "Anything you want," he whispered, then began pounding harder, thrusting deep within her. Corinna cried out, shaking with pleasure. She could actually feel the pulsing of his cock inside her, the way it stretched and filled her like no other man ever had.

She screeched when she came, a staccato, wild sound. Her hands slapped back against Dylan's hips, his strong arms. She nearly drew blood as she scratched at him. Her pussy squeezed him so tightly that he almost became immobile within her. Yet still he thrust, still he held her tightly and drove into her body, into her soul. Had he not been holding her so firmly, Corinna would have collapsed.

But then came the burst of energy, inspired by her release. Coming down from her orgasmic high, Corinna pushed against the shower wall and back against her lover. She glared at him over her shoulder, her eyes glowing brightly. "I wanna taste you, baby," she declared in a heated whisper.

"Do you?" he asked, driving his cock faster and faster within her rippling tunnel.

"Yes!" she gasped, shaking with both aftershocks of pleasure and anticipation of what was to come. "Please!"

With a groan, Dylan slipped out and leaned back against the tiled wall. The spray from the shower head cascaded over them both. Corinna whirled around and dropped to her knees, grasping his stiff, slick cock in her hands. She lavished it with attention, licking, sucking, stroking and pulling. Her mouth closed around the head as she masturbated him frantically. Water poured over Dylan's body, down Corinna's face. Her hair was heavy and wet from it, swept back from her face. He had trouble believing she was her real age in that moment.

"Oh, God! Jesus!" he croaked, arching his back from the wall, pushing his cock into Corinna's mouth. She stayed with him, sucking and urging out his orgasm. Then she felt his cock swell and stiffen, tasted the rush of warm, bittersweet fluid as it filled her mouth. She moaned at the flavor of him, relished the knowledge that she had coaxed out such a wonderful gift. She savored it all; the moment, the taste, everything.

Corinna slipped back, releasing his cock, and swallowed with a sigh. Smiling, she kissed, licked, and sucked tenderly at the head of Dylan's penis, squeezed out a few last drops for her hungry tongue. She grinned up at him, touching her chin as she felt a thin trickle of her lover's seed dripping down to her neck.

"Time to work, lover," she said, then gave the head of Dylan's cock one last, hard suck. Corinna smacked her lips, then pushed up and wiped her chin. She kissed Dylan deeply, knowing he did not mind the lingering flavor of his own semen. They held each other as the water washed over them, sharing tender, loving kisses in the afterglow.

"I wish we had another hour," muttered Dylan, running his hands through Corinna's darkened hair.

She smiled, pecked his lips. "Me, too. But duty calls, baby. Let's go."

***

Dylan looked at himself in the mirror. The 'costume department,' as he had already mentally nicknamed the Accessories Division, had done an excellent job on the suit. From the style and cut to the monogrammed handkerchief in the breast pocket, everything looked authentic. His hair was slicked back; it was shiny and felt heavy on his head. His feet were shod with polished wingtips. Very dapper, he thought.

"Mm-mm-mm," came Corinna's voice from behind him. "Damn, you look good, baby."

Dylan turned around, casting an admiring look over his lover's body. Her slim figure complimented the dress she wore well. It extended to mid-calf, of an off-white color with small red polka-dots. A bonnet-style hat formed a halo around the 'shingled bob' haircut she sported.

"I could say the same," he commented, adjusting his tie.

Corinna blushed slightly. "Too bad they had to age you," she remarked.

Self-consciously, Dylan touched the synthflesh mask that had given him crow's feet around his eyes and a slightly dry, aged look. He was supposed to be in his mid-forties, after all. "It feels strange," he admitted.

"Just something else you'll get used to," Corinna said. "So, are you ready to go back in time?"

Dylan chuckled under his breath. "That question ranks right up there on my list of 'things I thought I'd never hear.'"

Corinna smiled and stepped closer. "Get ready to hear it a lot, baby," she said. Her smile faltered a bit as she touched his chest through the pin-stripped shirt he wore. "Just keep in mind that . . . well, whatever happens in the past, stays in the past."

Dylan's brow furrowed in thought, and he cocked his head as he regarded his lover. "There's something you're not telling me."

She sighed heavily and turned away. "Stop doing that, okay? Yes, there's something I'm not telling you." She turned back and met his strong eyes. "And I'm not going to."

Dylan began to say something in protest, but Corinna's body language, the firmness of her voice, stifled him. Instead, he merely nodded. "Women have secrets," he said with a wan smile, then stepped past her and out the door of his quarters.

Corinna huffed, smoothed her hands down her dress. Great, she thought. Just fucking great . . . .

***

The lab tech was a mousy young man named Leonardo. He spoke with a thick Italian accent and gestured a lot when he spoke. "Here are your implants," he said, handing two small silver objects to the agents. They looked like stainless steel plugs to Dylan.

He took a breath, consciously touching the small covered hole in his skull, just behind his right ear. He had been wary about the surgery at first, but the procedure had been necessary for his inclusion in the TMA. Tentatively, he fitted the small plug in place, winced a bit as he felt it connect.

"Anything you need to know about 1933 will be in the implants," Leonardo continued. He looked dubiously to Dylan. "Accessing the information might be a bit . . . confusing, at first, of course."

Dylan nodded. "I'll manage. Besides, I grew up in the forties. I heard all sorts of stories about the Dust Bowl and the Depression."

Leonardo shifted. "Eh, of course, sir," he said. Like many others around the base, he obviously had trouble believing that the man before him was a septuagenarian.

"Don't worry," Corinna said, sidling up beside her fellow agent. "He'll have me around." She gave Dylan a look and a smile, which he returned.

"That will certainly be helpful," Leonardo said. "Now, the implants can also be used to communicate silently. Think of it as a form of telepathy. You will not need to speak at all, but organizing your thoughts might be a little difficult at first."



Dylan started at the eerie sensation of hearing Corinna's voice in his head. He looked to her, lips slowly stretching with a smile. He touched the implant, gave the technician a questioning glance.

"All you need to do is concentrate upon the person you wish to communicate with," Leonardo explained. "Keep in mind, of course, that this sort of communication only works with others who wear an implant."

Dylan nodded, focused on Corinna. ~Talk how this should be done right?~

Corinna laughed and playfully punched Dylan in the arm. ~You need to practice, baby.~

Dylan frowned, shaking his head. ~Weird this is sensation confusing.~

Corinna snorted in amusement. "You sound like a drunk Yoda."

***

Their case worker was a Brazillian woman named Carlotta De La O. She wore the usual blue coverall that draped off a tall, lanky frame. Standing before a broad digital screen in the Command Chamber, she held a laser pointer as the pre-mission briefing began.

"The target date is September 17th, 1933. The principal is one Michael Craig, twenty-three, heir to the Craig Fortune. On the proscribed date, he is registered at the Van Deusen Resort, attending the debutante ball of one—"

Dylan leaned forward slightly, raising a hand as he interrupted. "And the Craig Fortune is . . .?"

Carlotta faltered a moment. "Nothing, in and of itself," she said with an annoyed wrinkle above her nose. "Except as a well of 'old money' reserves. But, with the advent of the second World War, Michael Craig invests his fortune with the Anheuser-Busch company, practically guaranteeing that it becomes the principle supplier of alcoholic beverages to American troops."

Dylan arched an amused eyebrow and tried not to laugh. "Forgive me for just a second, here," he said. "But, why would anyone target someone like that? I mean, seriously, he invests his fortune with Budweiser? I'm pretty sure, if he hadn't, someone else would."

Corinna fixed Dylan a stern look. "Are you saying he shouldn't be saved?"

Dylan hesitated a moment, feeling rebuked. "It's not that," he said.

"Oh, right," she snipped. "You were expecting to save Reagan from assassination, or something like that. Look, Dylan, not every mission is glamorous. Most of what we do is to save mundane people who shouldn't have any recognizable impact on history . . . yet they do. So take this seriously."

Dylan mused over her words a moment, then nodded. "I guess I can understand that," he said. He smiled sheepishly. "I apologize. It's been over twenty years since I last took orders."

Corinna smiled back. "Just remember," she said, touching his hand. "Not everything we do makes sense at the time. But it's always necessary."

He nodded. "I'll remember that."

Carlotta De La O looked back and forth between them, and, satisfied that she had their attention once more, continued with the briefing: "All right, then: Your point of entry will be in the parking garage just east of the hotel . . . ."

***

Dylan fell to his hands and knees, coughing and shaking. He resisted the urge to vomit, and took deep breaths to calm himself. There was a dry taste in his mouth, and the hairs on his arms stood on end. After a moment, he felt his balance return, and pushed himself to his feet.

"Am I ever gonna get used to that?" he asked, peripherally noting the echo of his words within cool concrete walls.

Corinna smiled. "Yes, you will, baby." She touched his back, then his arm. "You okay?"

Dylan nodded, then coughed again, and spat. "I need a mint."

Corinna laughed, looking around. She reached into her handbag, took out what looked like a compact case. Through the fluffy pad, she pressed hidden buttons. The mirror on the inside of the lid transformed into a green-backed grid with a sweeping red line that spun about a central point. She frowned as blips appeared.

"Jesus," she muttered. "I'm getting Rectifier signatures all over the place."

Dylan frowned with worry, reaching inside his blazer. He came out with a cigarette case and flipped it open. Pushing a few invisible buttons as well, he looked at a screen on the inside of the lid. "I am, too. That's not normal, is it?"

"No, not at all," Corinna said in a worried voice. "We always assumed the Rectifiers had the same limits as we do when traveling back. I've never encountered more than two of them on a mission. What the hell is going on?"

Dylan looked around the parking garage. In the deep shadow, he could make out the silhouettes of numerous vintage vehicles, most of them Fords, Oldsmobiles, and a few Rolls Royces and Mercedes. "Well, whatever is going on, we need to stay alert. Rectifiers can't automatically detect us, right?"

Corinna shook her head. "No, only if they think about it. And androids follow programs. They'll do periodic sweeps, but with so many of them around, they'll probably lose us in the shuffle. So long as we act like we belong here, we'll be all right . . . for a while."

Dylan nodded and snapped the cigarette case closed. "In that case, we should get checked in." He offered his bent arm to Corinna.

Despite the circumstances, she could not help but smile. "Absolutely," she said.

***

The lobby of the Van Deusen Resort Hotel was inspiring. Polished marble columns held up the twenty-foot ceiling; ornate rugs covered the floor. The scents of cigarette smoke and expensive perfume filled the air as guests milled about the padded chairs and couches. Representatives of the societal elite were everywhere, contradicting the images in Dylan's mind concerning the realities of the Depression – which remained, however dim, in his memories – that wreaked havoc with the rest of the world.

It was like having a very real and life-like dream, Dylan figured. The kind of dream in which you simply knew it wasn't real, yet everything felt right. Except . . . .

This was real. He really had traveled back in time. Jesus, he thought. This is 1933. I'm not even born yet.

A surreptitious nudge to his abdomen by Corinna's elbow brought him back to the moment. "You're on point, baby," she muttered through her teeth, smiling at the people around her. "Remember, this is the thirties . . . certain things are handled by men."

He nodded. "Right." Focusing on the moment, he approached the front desk, where a slender young man in a maroon jacket stood professionally. With all the confidence and quiet arrogance expected of a man of means in such a turbulent time, Dylan rapped his knuckles on the mahogany top. "Mr. Maxwell Lord, and wife," he said. "We have reservations."

The pimple-faced young man glanced down to the thick book before him. Dylan waited patiently, thinking about the real Maxwell Lord, who, according to historical records, had perished due to an asthmatic fit three days prior. The actual record of the man's death would not be in the public eye for another week. He hoped Mr. Lord's spirit would not be insulted by Dylan's use of his name.

"Here we are, Mr. Lord," the clerk said at last. He smiled and held up a key attached to a diamond-shaped wooden placard. "Room 217. You may take the stairs at the end of the hall, or our new electronic lift."

Dylan smiled. "Call me old-fashioned," he said. "But I prefer the stairs." He snatched up the key and glanced to Corinna. Without a word, she smiled and nodded, taking her 'husband's' arm, and followed him down the hall beside the reception desk.




TMA: Agent Moon Ch. 02



"So far, so good," mumbled Dylan as they approached the stairs.

"Just relax, baby," she said in response. "Remember, you have the implant. Be smooth and confidant. You're doing fine."

Dylan did not respond as he walked. Instead, he regarded the faces of those they passed – the young couple as they giggled and touched one another, the older man who strode with purpose down the middle of the hall, the uniformed porters and housekeepers – and wondered if any of them were actually Rectifier agents. Instincts that had lain dormant for two decades were suddenly on edge.

Just keep to the mission, he told himself. Keep to the mission . . . .

***

As they neared the door to their room, they saw a young woman closing it behind her, pushing a wooden cart laden with all the typical accouterments: toilet paper, paper towels, a bucket with sponges floating within it, and other items. She looked up at the approach of the man and woman, and smiled sheepishly.

"I was just checking your room," she said demurely, head bowed as if she was addressing royalty. Her voice was tinted with an accent that, Dylan assumed, she tried to suppress. It reminded him of West Virginia. "The front desk called to make sure everything was in order."

Dylan smiled upon the girl, assessing her soft face, the brunette hair, the light spattering of freckles across her cheeks. "Thank you . . . miss . . .?"

The young woman blushed, even as she smiled. Her eyes lifted, meeting Dylan's own. For a quick moment, they shared that look. "V-vernon," she said at last. "Betty Vernon."

Dylan touched her shoulder. "Are you often on this floor?" he asked.

Betty nodded, her smile deepening for a moment. The she noticed Corinna and looked down once more. "Um, yes, sir. This is my normal round. Anything you need, sir."

Dylan lowered his hand. "I'll remember that," he said. He watched as the young woman pushed her cart away, then took out the key and opened the door. He could not help but feel the coldness radiating off Corinna as she breezed past him into the room. He closed the door softly and flicked the lock, watching his 'wife' as she tossed her handbag on the singular bed in the room.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

"Nothing," she responded curtly.

Dylan sighed. "Look, being undercover means acting like someone you're not," he said. "Maxwell Lord was a terrible flirt, according to our records. Besides, she could be a Rectifier, you know," he said.

"Uh-huh," Corinna responded, facing the large mirror in the room as she took out her earrings.

Dylan sighed. "I wasn't flirting seriously," he said.

Corinna slapped the small baubles she had taken from her ears upon the long vanity that spanned the wall. "Even if you were," she said, then took a breath. She forced a smile. "You're right. Besides, it's been my experience that people like her are better for information than nearly anyone."

Dylan stepped up behind Corinna, looking at their reflections in the mirror. His callused hands touched her bare arms beneath the hem of the dress' sleeves. He lowered his face beside hers. "Is this what you were worried about, Cori?" he asked, his voice scarcely above a whisper.

She ground her teeth, staring into the mirror. "Dylan . . . ."

"Yes?" he asked, moving his hands up, massaging her shoulders.

Abruptly, she spun about, wrapping her arms around Dylan's neck and crushing her lips against his. She pressed her body against his and moaned softly into his mouth. Breaking the kiss for a moment, she managed a heated whisper: "Take me. Now."

***

Dylan stared at himself in the mirror. The lingering aroma of sex surrounded him as he leaned against the simple porcelain sink. Corinna was asleep in the bed; Dylan had learned to expect her to slumber after a bout of sex. Strangely enough, he always felt awake and refueled afterward. Perhaps it was yet another aspect of his unusual physiognomy.

He turned on the faucet, splashed some cold water onto his face. He was mildly surprised to find that a bathroom in 1933 was much more familiar than he would have expected. Porcelain sink, polished steel faucets, a mirrored cabinet. The only thing that seemed out of place was the claw-footed tub with the serpentine shower head hanging over it.

Dylan smiled suddenly. I'm in the year 1933, at a resort in upstate New York. I have to save some stolid rich kid from being assassinated by robots from the future. He chuckled. And to think I thought I had seen it all in the FBI . . . .

He wiped his face with a towel, then dabbed at his underarms. Deodorant in 1933 was a puff of talc, supplemented with cologne (if one could afford it). No spray-on or roll-on antiperspirant. Briefly, Dylan wondered how long it would be before he noticed his own body odor.

He pushed away from the sink, paused in the doorway as he looked upon Corinna slumbering in the hotel bed. She looked almost tortured in her sleep. Dylan could only guess at the things she had seen and endured in her life, as a soldier, a woman, and a time-traveling agent. There was some pain in her past, that much he could readily deduce. But they had not been together long enough for him to discern what that was.

His brow furrowed. And how much longer are we going to be together? he wondered. I'm seventy-three years old, but according to Dr. Ziske, I won't even be middle-aged until a hundred and thirty or so, maybe even later. How many more years has she got? Thirty? Forty?

A pained look crossed his face, and he self-consciously touched his left ring finger. The simple gold circle felt strange. He had not worn one in almost twenty years, and while the ring was only part of their cover, it was conspicuous to him. How many times am I going to suffer through it? How many wives and lovers will I lose because I'm different?

A weight descended upon his chest. He felt almost claustrophobic; the need for fresh air was undeniable. Hurriedly, he slipped on his slacks and shirt, stepped into his shoes. Corinna did not stir. Dylan already knew what a deep sleeper she was. She did not hear him as he stepped out the door.

There was a small open balcony at the end of the hall, overlooking the resort. Below lay a large pool, with an open-air bar and a stage where a jazz band played. Men, women and children sat, strolled, and swam beneath the warm September sun. Within a month, the air would turn chilly, Dylan knew, but for the moment, the Indian Summer was cause for celebration. The air was breezy and gentle; Dylan cupped his hand slightly around the Zippo as he lit his cigarette.

Dylan smiled, looking on in wonder. In 2007, women would be wearing skimpy bikinis that revealed more than they hid, and some men would brave scrutiny with thongs. But in 1933, women wore one-piece suits with high necklines that covered them to mid-thigh, yet left their arms 'scandalously' bare. Men wore long shorts, but only while in the pool; otherwise, they wrapped robes around themselves, or pulled on loose tennis shirts.

Dylan frowned slightly as he looked upon the jazz band. It was only a six-piece ensemble, as opposed to the sixteen horns and strings that would undoubtedly play in the ballroom that evening. What really garnered Dylan's attention, however, was the grinning, large-bodied black man standing before the ensemble and singing into a classic 'radio days' microphone.

"I don't believe it," Dylan said aloud as he smiled. "Satchmo."

"Yeah," came a young woman's familiar voice. Dylan turned in her direction as she continued, timidly stepping onto the balcony. "Miss Hutton's father is a pretty important fellow. But how he got Mr. Armstrong to fly over here from overseas, just to play for four days, is beyond me."

Dylan smiled with a small nod. "Um . . . Betty, right?" he asked.

The girl blushed, her eyes dipping. "And you're Mr. Lord, from Connecticut," she said, smiling slightly in self-congratulation.

He cocked his head. "I didn't realize I was that well known," he said, feeling a moment's anxiety. He and Corinna had been assured that, while sufficiently wealthy to warrant an invitation for Miss Catherine Hutton's debutante ball, Maxwell Lord was relatively obscure.

Betty shrugged. "I like to know who I'm taking care of," she said simply. Her eyes wandered a bit over Dylan's torso, and her cheeks reddened again at the small amount of his chest that was exposed.

"You're very thorough, then," he said, leaning casually against the balcony railing.

Betty looked admonished. "I'm sorry, Mr. Lord," she said. "I probably shouldn't be talking with you."

He shrugged and pulled on his cigarette. "Why not? Hotel rules say you can't speak to the guests?"

Betty frowned. "Well . . . yes, actually, except when it's polite."

He arched an eyebrow. Oh, right. This is 1933. He gave the girl a wink. "It's okay. I won't tell anyone."

Her rosy cheeks returned, and she touched her face self-consciously. But she took another step closer, standing in profile to him at the railing. The breeze stirred the strands of her hair that were not secured in the simple bun. Dylan could not help but think that the cyan-colored maid's uniform she wore did much to accentuate her natural curves. Betty Vernon was markedly much more voluptuous than Corinna.

She turned her head slightly. "Um, got another square for a working girl?" she asked.

Dylan chuckled and dug out his cigarette case. "Sure," he said, and took one out. He lit the cigarette for the young woman as she leaned in. Her light freckles glowed softly as she inhaled and pulled back.

"Thanks," she said, and licked her lips. "I'm glad you prefer the filtered ones."

Dylan felt the implant kick in. It was a strange sensation, suddenly knowing something he did not before. "Well, the extra cost is worth it."

Betty smiled. "Still, ten cents a pack . . . ."

Dylan held back a laugh. Wait until they're six dollars, he thought. He made an effort to clear his head. "You like working here?"

Betty shrugged. "Work . . . live. Yeah, I suppose it's fine. A lot better'n home."

"You live here?"

The girl nodded. "Sure do. Few of us girls do. Even in the dead of winter, when the hotel is closed down, we keep up the place. Guess that makes it easier for them to only pay us a dollar a day. But, you know . . . pennies add up."

"I'm sure they do."

Betty tapped her cigarette and hung her head, almost in shame. "That was really inappropriate, Mr. Lord," she said. "I got no right to say anything of the sort. I hope you won't tell Mr. Starkweather."

Dylan thought a moment, making the effort to access the implant. Starkweather, Johnathan, 37 years old . . . hotel manager at Van Deusen, 1929-1935. Terminated for impropriety with a female employee . . . .

"I won't, promise," he said, reassuring the girl. "I'm not much for following rules myself."

Betty smiled, casting Dylan a brief glance. She took one last puff on her cigarette, then stepped to the standing ashtray in the corner. She turned back, hands held before her. "Thank you for the cigarette, Mr. Lord," she said. Her eyes held his for a moment, soft orbs of bright hazel that captivated him, if only for a heartbeat.

He nodded. "You're welcome, Betty."

She blushed at his use of her first name, and headed back toward the hallway. Then she paused and glanced back over her shoulder. "If I may, Mr. Lord, your wife is a very lucky woman." Then she headed down the hallway.

Dylan watched her go, feeling a mix of emotions. There was something . . . undeniable about the young maid, other than her fresh-scrubbed face and innocent eyes, her full bosom and deliciously showcased rear. Some sort of ethereal quality that prickled Dylan's skin when she was around.

He waited until she had disappeared around the corner of the hallway, then concentrated on the implant once more. Surprisingly, it took only a few moments to access the information he desired.

Vernon, Bethany Jane . . . born June 9, 1913, in Clarksburg, West Virginia. Father Herbert James, mother Gloria Dean Stathan . . . employed at Van Deusen Resort Hotel, 1932-1935 . . . found dead, February 14th, 1935, in an alley in south Boston . . . .

Dylan's eyes flashed open, feeling his heart pounding briefly with anxiety and vicarious fear for this young woman, doomed to live little more than a year longer. He forcefully swallowed the lump in his throat, pulled on his cigarette.

Jesus Christ, he thought. I didn't want to know that.

It took a little effort, but Dylan finally pried his thoughts away from Betty. He ground out his cigarette, then headed back to the room.

***

Corinna stood facing the windows, holding the compact against her ear, as Dylan stepped through the door. The silky slip she wore hung off the spikes of her nipples and graced her lean, muscular thighs nicely. She did not notice the quiet entrance of her lover.

". . . yes, at least a dozen signatures," she said, speaking into the camouflaged phone. She frowned at the response on the other end. "How the hell am I supposed to know? There've never been more than two Rectifiers encountered—" she broke off, listening. She nodded now and then.

"No, I got a fix on him," she continued. "Everything seems to be on schedule. But I really don't like this. The odds are greatly against us. If we take action, we might end up causing a hell of a lot more damage to the timestream . . . I don't think you want to hear my ideas . . . all right . . . yeah, repatriation. Yes, it would be tricky . . . ." Corinna huffed loudly, and turned around, finally noticing Dylan. Her eyes widened, then turned hard.

". . . yeah, talk it over with Col. Naveen, then get back to me," she said curtly, then snapped the compact closed. She fixed Dylan an acidic look. "Where the hell have you been?" she barked.

Dylan blinked. "I didn't want to disturb you," he said. "I just stepped down the hall for a smoke—"

"A smoke?" she shrilled, advancing upon him. "There are at least a dozen Rectifiers in this hotel, and you go out for a fucking smoke break! Get it in your head, agent! This is not a fucking holiday!"

Dylan was passively stoic as Corinna roared, and now frowned upon her, working his jaw. "Don't ever question me," he said in a dark, even tone. His eyes penetrated into hers. "And don't forget that I'm practically twice your age. I know more about duty and responsibility than you do."

He stepped away, leaving Corinna both stunned and admonished. For long moments, neither of them spoke. Dylan headed to the bathroom. "I'm going to take a shower," he said in a grating voice.

***

Though physically close, Dylan and Corinna remained emotionally distant that evening as they attended the first night of the debutante ball. Catherine Hutton was the daughter of a steelworks tycoon, but beyond that, the TMA agents knew (due to their implants) neither the young woman nor her family ever made much of an impact on history beyond the thirties. Dylan found that fact amusing: despite all the pompous expense of Catherine Hutton's coming of age, it all eventually came to nothing.

Still, it was necessary to keep up appearances and play the roles they had adopted. "Maxwell Lord," Dylan said by way of introduction as he shook the hand of a minor newspaper magnate. "Nice to meet you."

Similar introductions were given, and casual conversations made, as Dylan and Corinna made the rounds at the party. Taking up flutes of champagne, they strode the floor, trying not to become distracted by all the finery displayed. Over thirty thousand dollars had been spent on this four-day bash, the agents new. Translated to modern dollars, that figure would have been close to a million.

"All this money, just to get his little girl in the limelight," Dylan mused.

"It's a different world," responded Corinna, with more than a little coldness.

Dylan tried not to think about the tension between them. He understood that they could not afford to compromise their mission because of a personal squabble. But he knew their emotions could become a distraction, regardless of how professional they were. The key was to stay focused on the task at hand, and worry about their personal lives later.

"We should mingle until Craig shows up," suggested Corinna, not looking to Dylan. "We don't want to do anything to look out of place."

"Sure," responded Dylan, but even as he spoke, he found his attention diverted. Halfway across the spacious ball room, the young brunette appeared, clad in a classic white tuxedo shirt and black skirt. She balanced a round tray professionally on her small hand, laden with flutes of champagne, as she circulated through the crowd.

"You found her pretty fast," Corinna commented, having obviously followed where Dylan's eyes fell.

Dylan looked to her. "Is this going to become a problem?" he asked. "Your jealousy, I mean. And not just on this mission, but in the future."

Corinna glanced away, sighing deeply as she ground her teeth. "No," she said. "I'm sorry. Look, why don't we just . . . do what we're supposed to do, all right?"

Slowly, Dylan agreed. "All right," he said, then gave Corinna a soft touch on her cheek. He smiled. "Meet back here later?"

Corinna's face was unreadable for a moment, then she nodded and smiled. "Sure."

***

Mr. Michael Craig was a skinny, effeminate young man, impeccably tailored and obviously impressed with himself. He arrived with an entourage that included supposed Hollywood starlets, but if any of them ever made it to the silver screen, Dylan had never seen them.

Disengaging himself from a captivating conversation about Egyptology with an archaeologist named Jones, Dylan touched the implant behind his ear and concentrated briefly. ~Cori?~

There was a pause before she replied. ~I'm here. I saw him, too.~

Dylan chuckled as he approached the bar, still keeping the dapper Mr. Craig in sight. ~I'm not surprised. All right, we found him. Now what?~

Corinna's reply was curt. ~Now we keep an eye on him.~

***

Louis Armstrong's voice carried through the air, above the band's rendition of 'Mack The Knife,' serving well to keep the crowd in a festive mood. Dylan found himself smiling and nodding along with the music, even as he kept his mind on business. Never had he thought he would ever have been able to see the great Satchmo perform in person. There had been that chance, in 1960, shortly before the man stopped performing, but Dylan had not been able to make the time.

And now that I can finally see the man, I'm on a God damned mission through time, he thought with a rueful smile. His eyes darted to his charge. Michael Craig was busy entertaining a group of middle-aged wives, soaking up their attention. His entourage looked bored, remaining close to Craig even as they flirted with their eyes.

"Oh, Mr. Lord! Would you like some champagne?"

Dylan turned at the sound of the young woman's voice. He smiled upon Betty, again feeling that incontrovertible sense of attraction, and took a flute from her tray. "Thank you," he said. His eyes wandered a bit, noting how the majority of her full breasts were exposed by the push-up bodice top she wore. He found the bowtie choker especially sexy.

"So, um, where's the wife?" she asked innocently.

Dylan shrugged. "Making the rounds," he said dismissively. "Keeping our good name in the minds of those who run things."

Betty half-heartedly nodded. "But you're not," she said, the corner of her mouth curling slightly in a sly smile. "Instead, you're talking to a hotel employee."

Dylan sipped his champagne, watching the band. "I'm not quite as obvious as my wife," he said. "I prefer to speak when it is important to do so."




TMA: Agent Moon Ch. 02



The girl stepped closer. "So, um . . . why're you speaking to me?" she asked.

Dylan looked upon her. Why, indeed, he thought. His eyes gave her a soft look. "Maybe I enjoy talking to you," he said.

Betty blushed, both upon her cheeks and the tops of her breasts. "Mr. Lord . . . ."

He chuckled at her response, but at the same time wondered, why am I flirting with her?

He heard a tiny ping from his implant, indicating that Corinna wanted to talk to him. Instinctively, he looked around, hoping to find his 'wife.' But she remained hidden within the crowd. He took out his cigarette case, turned from Betty. "Excuse me," he said.

The girl shifted on her feet, looking expectant and perhaps a little embarrassed. "Um . . . sure."

Dylan opened the case, holding it up as he took a cigarette from it. ~What's going on, Corinna?~

~Rectifiers on your mark,~ she returned. ~Three and five o'clock, moving in. Get out of there. I'll stay on Craig.~

Dylan frowned, already feeling the adrenaline surging. ~All right,~ he sent, then snapped the case closed, after replacing his cigarette, and turned back to Betty. At the same time, he noticed two different men, clad in dark suits, approaching from his three and five o'clock positions. Both were somewhat similar, tall, well-built, with grease-backed hair and chiseled features. On was dark-haired with some vague Asian features in his face, the other blonde and All-American.

Even with the adrenaline pumping in his veins, yet Dylan maintained his composure. "Betty," he said. "I wonder if you might help me with something?"

Her eyes flickered a moment, then she smiled. "Sure," she said, and found an unoccupied corner of the banquet table upon which to set her tray. She straightened and looked to Dylan expectantly. She held her arms behind her back, which made her tantalizing breasts thrust out in an inviting way. "What do you need?"

He took her arm, steering her away from the table. "Show me through the halls," he said, leading her toward a side door from the ball room. It opened to a corridor, the walls lined with crates of wine and liquor. Betty trotted obediently beside him, giggling softly.

"You don't have to be that forceful, Mr. Lord," she said, pulling her arm away. She smiled sweetly. "All you hadda do was ask, and I'd come along with you."

Dylan didn't think about the implication of the girl's words. He was preoccupied, watching the door behind them, anticipating the pursuit of the two men Corinna had indicated. "We need to find a quiet place," he said.

Again, Betty giggled. She took his hand and pulled Dylan down a side corridor, then another, eventually coming to a door marked 'Maintenance.' "This oughtta work," she said, pushing the door open. She pulled on a chain hanging from the ceiling, and light filled the room. Betty closed the door, then faced Dylan as he leaned against the wall. He settled his hand upon the knob of the closed and now locked door, listened through it.

"Stay quiet," he whispered, not looking to the girl.

He heard her giggle again, much more subdued this time. "I'll try," she said in a breathy voice. Dylan stiffened instantly as he felt her hands on his hips, moving around to his backside. He gave her an alarmed look as Betty pressed her soft, voluptuous body against his, her breasts mashing against his chest. She smiled up at him at first, moist lips parted for a kiss, but the smile faded as she read his reaction.

"Oh . . . just fluff? Is that it?" she asked, backing off a bit. Her hands wandered to his belt. "That's okay. I do that, too."

Dylan was momentarily confused as this girl, this twenty-year-old, began undoing his belt. For a moment, he forgot about the two men following him. Realization dawned upon his mind with the brilliant flash of a thousand-watt bulb.

She's a damn prostitute! The shock flashed through his brain for a millisecond, before he grabbed Betty's wrists.

"What's wrong?" she asked, looking worried and scared. "Ain't this what you wanted?"

Dylan met her eyes, seeing something within them that was eerily familiar. Like looking into a mirror, he thought, although he could not understand why. At the same time, he heard footsteps outside the door, heard two men talking. Instinctively, he knew it was the men he had seen advancing toward him in the ball room.

"Betty," he whispered, his voice barely audible. "I know you don't understand, but right now . . . shut up."

The girl blinked, her eyes flashing open wide. She jerked her hands back, crossed her arms over her breasts defensively. She said nothing as she retreated away, against the racks of towels on the wall behind her.

Dylan turned his focus from the girl, and listened again through the door. He caught bits and pieces of muffled conversation, something about 'finding him.' A hand tested the door from the other side. Dylan kept his grip loose as the knob twisted back and forth.

"Let's keep moving," he heard a muffled voice saying. "He's gotta be 'round."

Click, click . . . Dylan listened to the sounds of the men's heels as they began to step away. He glanced quickly to Betty, indicated silence with a finger against his lips. Then he jerked open the door.

The two men spun around quickly, hands flashing into their jackets automatically. But before they could sport their weapons, Dylan was upon them, calling upon decades of combat experience. Hands and feet landed swiftly, brutally, sending the two men sprawling to the floor within a matter of instants. They barely had time to grunt before they were rendered unconscious.

Betty emerged hesitantly from the small closet, intrigued by the sounds she had heard, to see Dylan crouched on the floor. She gasped as he lifted a nickel-colored .45-caliber pistol and racked the slide.

Dylan snapped his head around, meeting her eyes. "Don't ask," he said.

Betty sputtered, watching as 'Maxwell Lord' tucked two pistols into his waistband and drew his blazer closed. "Who are you?"

He faced her, his eyes hard. "I said, 'don't ask.'"

Betty swallowed nervously. "Um . . . okay. I just . . . I never seen anything like that before."

Dylan softened. "I know," he said. He approached Betty slowly, settled his hands on her shoulders. He could feel her quivering, yet at the same time, felt the girl mustering her strength. Her eyes were like rippling pools of water as they gazed up at him. "Can you do something for me?"

Betty shuddered, and she blinked, then nodded. "Yeah," she said.

Dylan gave his best reassuring, non-threatening smile. "I need you to go back to the ball room and forget—"

~Dylan!~

He jerked up, hearing Corinna's anguished voice in his head. ~Cori!~ he returned, adrenaline pumping anew. ~Are you all right?~

~I'm in the south stairwell!~ she replied through the implant. ~I've got three of them on me! Meet me in the garage! Hurry!~

Dylan had but a moment to consider his course of action. He gave Betty an intent look. "Go," he commanded, then urged her along the corridor. The young woman hesitated at first, chancing a worried and fearful glance back, but she nevertheless turned and ran down the hall. Dylan could only hope she would keep quiet about what she had seen.

For a moment, he looked back to the two unconscious men, finding it strange that they still lay there, breathing. His eyes narrowed in suspicion. They didn't disappear, he thought. If they're Rectifiers, why didn't they disappear?

He did not allow himself to dwell on it. A moment later, Agent Dylan Moon was running full-tilt down the corridor.

***

Dylan was glad he had access to the blueprints of the hotel through his implant. He was able to stick to service corridors and little-used hallways to reach the southern stairwell, then down the steps to the side door closest to the parking structure. Sweat was already dripping from his temples and forehead as he burst out into the September air.

It was a short sprint to the grey metal door in the nearest wall of the two-story structure, and before he was even halfway there, Dylan had both of the confiscated pistols in hand. ~Cori, I'm almost there. Talk to me.~

Her response was quick. ~Ground level, southeast corner,~ she sent. ~They don't know exactly where I am, but they're getting close. Down to two, now. I took one of them out. I'm armed, now.~

Dylan smiled proudly. ~I am, too,~ He carefully opened the side door and slipped into the darkness of the structure, crouching before the front end of an Oldsmobile coupe as he let his eyes adjust to the gloom. ~Took out the two following me in the kitchen hall. But they didn't disappear.~

~I know. I don't think they're Rectifiers.~

Dylan crept low along the wall, moving from car to car. He heard various echoing, distorted sounds through the large garage. ~Then why did we get signal locks on them?~

~We'll have to figure that out later, baby.~

Dylan nodded. ~Agreed. So . . . how do we deal with these guys?~

~I'll have that figured out in a sec. I've got Jasper on the line. He's analyzing their signatures.~

Dylan felt a moment's worth of mild amazement. Good thing we have resources, he thought. He darted through the shadows, keeping low behind the cars. Not far ahead, near the southeast corner of the garage, he heard scuffling movements. A pair of shapes moved with minimal stealth, stooping now and then to look beneath the cars. Even with the dim light, Dylan could make out the glint of metal on the slides of pistols held in their hands.

~I see them,~ he sent to Corinna. ~They're approaching your mark.~

~I know. I'm boxed in. Damn it!~ Dylan could feel the anxiety in his lover's thoughts. He watched as the two men stiffened, then parted, moving around either side of a pair of sedans. The motivation of their actions was obvious; they had found her.

~Cori!~

~Shit! Dylan!~

He did not think about his actions. He responded purely on instinct. Darting from his hiding place, Dylan ran down the center lane of the garage, coming up behind the two men. The loud slapping of his footfalls alerted them, causing them to turn around, bringing weapons to bear. But Dylan already had his pistols raised, trained on the two men. He pulled the triggers quickly.

The explosions reverberated painfully between concrete walls as muzzle flashes lit the air like torches. One of the men pitched back, geysers of blood erupting from his chest. He sprawled upon the ground, twitching and sputtering in pain. The other cried out, slapping a hand to his shoulder even as he fired off a round that bit impotently into the ceiling. He fell behind a car, out of Dylan's sight.

Dylan slid to a crouch behind that same car, his back against the spare tire case, both pistols held to either side of his head. ~One down.~

~Jesus, baby, you can't do that! These guys might have influenced the time stream!~

~We're still here, aren't we?~

There was a long pause. ~Well, you're lucky. These guys aren't Rectifiers, they're Walkers. That means we can kill them.~

Dylan frowned. ~What the hell's a Walker?~

~Tell ya later, baby,~ Corinna sent. A heartbeat later, Dylan heard a deafening report as a pistol was fired. It came from the other side of the car against which he leaned. Automatically, he spun around the edge, leveling the weapons in his hands.

Corinna stood over an unmoving body, smoke trailing from the pistol in her hand. She saw Dylan and smiled. "It's okay," she said.

Dylan let out a breath and stood, relaxing somewhat. He approached Corinna, watching as she held her 'compact' to her ear. "Thanks, Doc," she spoke into the device, then pressed one of the hidden buttons. She held up the compact, reading the screen.

"We're not out of the woods yet, baby," she said worriedly.

Dylan was on alert once more, stepping up beside Corinna so that he could see her screen. There were red blips all over the place, moving closer.

"This isn't good," he said, lifting his eyes and looking around. Judging by the positions on the screen, he figured their enemies were just outside the parking structure.

"They've never used this many Walkers," Corinna remarked, leading Dylan to a stairwell door. She added jokingly: "They must have called up the reserves."

"What are Walkers?" he asked, reloading the .45s as they ascended the stairs.

"People who should have died," Corinna said. "The Rectifiers find people in the past who, according to historical records, died. They fake their deaths, then nullify their minds with drugs and place them in suspended animation. They fit them with implants, then call them out whenever they need them. But they've never used more than a few. This is unprecedented."

Dylan mused thoughtfully as they stepped through the door on the second and topmost level of the garage. There were fewer walls, and therefore, more light. The countryside beyond the shadowy shapes of the vehicles was ironically peaceful.

"It's the implants that make them show up as Rectifiers, isn't it?" he asked.

Corinna nodded, snapping the compact closed and returning it to her purse. "Yeah. We're still trying to figure out a way to differentiate their signatures from real Rectifiers. But really, it doesn't matter." She met Dylan's eyes meaningfully. "We can treat them the same way we treat those mechanical bastards."

Dylan nodded, racking the slides of the pistols in turn. "Time to play dirty, then."

Corinna smiled despite the moment. "Damn, baby, you're sexy when you go into 'Dirty Harry' mode." She pulled herself against him and mashed her lips against his. The kiss was serious, passionate, almost desperate. She finally pulled back with a warm sigh leaving her lips. "I love you, Dylan," she whispered.

For a moment, Dylan was stunned by her proclamation. He stared into Corinna's eyes, but his chance to respond – not that he would have known how to at the moment – vanished as the door behind them burst open.

He reacted in a flash, spinning and positioning his body before Corinna's in the same fluid movement, raising his pistol. A dark suit, malevolent look, and threatening weapon were all he needed to see to tell him that the man who charged out was an enemy. I single shot to the forehead, eliciting a pinkish cloud that exploded from the other side, and the Walker was down.

Hurriedly, hearing more pounding footsteps in the stairwell, Dylan hurled his body against the door, slamming it closed. He looked to Corinna, ready to bark an order, but she was already busy with the simple lock on a Rolls Royce. Dylan braced his feet on the floor and held back the pounding at the door, giving Corinna the time it took to hotwire the car.

"Hurry it up!" cried Dylan, feeling the door open, just an inch or so, before he slammed it closed once more.

"Just need a sec!" yelled Corinna as she popped the hood of the Rolls. She reached inside the engine compartment with practiced hands. The car roared to life a moment later, and Corinna slammed the hood closed, scampering around behind the wheel. Her eyes were wide and furious as she looked to Dylan.

"Three!" he shouted.

Corinna nodded, pulling the door closed. She threw the car in gear. "Two!"

"One!" cried Dylan, leaping away from the door and toward the ground. He rolled onto his feet, facing the door, guns blazing. As he had expected, dark-suited shapes poured out, and the first few fell before his onslaught. Their bodies pitched and spasmed, blood spattering the walls and floor.

But Dylan did not watch the consequences of his actions. He was already running for the Rolls, hoping he had caused enough chaos to keep the remaining Walkers demoralized for a moment or two. Indeed, not a bullet chased him as he slid across the hood of the car and jerked open the passenger door. Immediately, Corinna plunged her foot down on the accelerator and guided the powerful car toward the ramp.

"Well, this is familiar," chuckled Dylan as he ejected the clips from his pistols.

Corinna smiled at him briefly as tires screeched outside. "I always love a good car chase," she said. Without being asked to do so, she set her pistol in Dylan's lap.

By the time the Rolls was roaring out of the garage on the bottom floor, Dylan had transferred their remaining bullets into two magazines, with a single bullet left over. He loaded two of the weapons, tossed the other out the window as Corinna drove down the gravel slope, away from the resort.

"Where are we going?" he asked.

"Away from here," responded Corinna, gripping the wheel tightly. The muscles of her arms showed the effort she made to control the vehicle.

"But what if they go after Craig?"

Corinna shook her head. "Walkers are simple-minded," she said. "They were sent to take us out and keep us from stopping the Rectifier from completing its mission."

Dylan nodded, understanding. "Which won't happen for another two days," he said.

Corinna nodded. "Exactly. So all we have to do is lure the Walkers away, ambush them, then we can go back."

"What about the bodies in the garage and hotel?"

She laughed darkly. "This is 1933," she said. "And there are a hundred or so 'connected' people staying in the hotel. Even though no one knows what the hell is going on, it'll be kept quiet."

Dylan smirked. "Just another gangland hit gone wrong, huh?"

Corinna's smile remained as she looked to him. In Dylan's memory, that moment would be nearly frozen, stretched out. For, as her lips parted to respond, thick blonde curls dancing slowly around Corinna's face, Dylan could see past her, out the driver-side window, as a large truck bounded out from a side road. The grill on the front end of the vehicle was so close that he could make out every scratch upon it.

The Rolls-Royce shuddered as the truck slammed into it. The two vehicles canted and spun, toward the edge of the road, which lay just a few feet from the edge of a thousand-foot drop to the valley below. Tires dug up dirt and gravel, metal screamed, engines roared. The world outside the canopy of the Rolls became a blur of dust, trees, and sky.

"Dylan! Jump!"

He braced his hands against the dash, watching Corinna in alarm. She was suddenly cradling her left arm against her, and Dylan could see blood. Her face was pained, yet she still managed to steer the large sedan one-handed. "I won't leave you!" he yelled.

"Jump, agent!" she roared, as sedan and truck careened to the edge of the cliff.

Dylan responded out of duty and self-preservation. He threw himself against the car door, knocking it open, and tumbled out onto the road. He grunted against the pain as his body was battered, and finally landed on his chest, looking up just as the Rolls-Royce and the truck listed violently off the edge of the cliff.

"No!" cried Dylan, impotently reaching out. But then both vehicles were gone, cascading out of sight. He could just see Corinna's anguished face through the windshield of the Rolls before it vanished.

~I love you, Dylan.~

Dylan squeezed his eyes closed as he lay upon the road. ~Corinna . . . .~

***

The party was over for the night; the majority of guests had left the ball room and bar, either retiring to their rooms or joining Louis and the band once more by the pool. Dylan was glad for the quiet at the moment; he was tired and numb, both physically and mentally. Corinna's death weighed heavily upon him, as well as the fact that the success of the mission now lay entirely on his shoulders. Dylan had thought to call Command during the walk, but he could not think of what to say.

He dragged his feet toward the ball room, watching as professionally-garbed employees cleaned up the tables. There were a few patrons at the bar, but with only the muffled, faint music wafting in through the halls from the pool, the cavernous ballroom was largely quiet.




TMA: Agent Moon Ch. 02



Ignoring the glances cast his way, Dylan set his rolled-up jacket – in which he had placed the pistols – on one bar stool and took another for himself. He had dusted off his slacks, but they still had faint streaks of dirt and dust on them. Not that Dylan cared.

"Scotch," Dylan said in lieu of introduction to the bartender. The middle-aged man said nothing, just nodded professionally and took up the bottle and a glass.

"Whisky for me," sounded a self-confident voice as a man took the stool beside Dylan. Dylan gave the newcomer an annoyed look; he had hoped to wallow alone.

"Of course, sir," the bartender replied. He poured both drinks together, bottles in each hand, then pushed the glasses toward the men. Dylan only gave a short nod; his bar mate thanked the tuxedoed drink-slinger effusively.

"These golden-age bartenders, huh, Dylan? You gotta admire them for their efficiency."

Dylan frowned, feeling a spike of anxiety in his chest. He turned his head slowly to his left, to the blonde-haired man, while reaching his hand to the bundled-up jacket on his right. "Who are you?"

The man stared back, his brow furrowed for a moment. Then he laughed, a deep, foreboding chuckle. "So this is our first meeting," he said. "I was starting to wonder."

Dylan leaned back a bit in his stool, contemplating the man before him. High cheekbones, square jaw, narrow but obviously fit build. The man was taller than Dylan, by a good inch or two, and had short, thick blonde hair that was appropriately slicked back. Dylan could feel the casual arrogance of the man, rolling off him like cheap aftershave, and decided he was not going to like this man much.

"You're a Rectifier," Dylan said at last, eyes narrowed as his hand reached behind, to the bundle in the seat beside his. The tips of his fingers found the butt of one of the .45s, but he did not draw it.

"Foster Reece," the man said, bowing slightly with a hand to his chest. He grinned as he straightened. "And you are Dylan Moon, the ageless wonder. Happy belated birthday, by the way."

"My birthday's not for months," Dylan said in annoyed confusion.

Reece chuckled. "In case you haven't noticed, this is September. You're birthday was just about a month and a half ago."

Dylan sighed in exasperation. "What do you want?"

Reece leaned closer, a conspiratorial look on his face. "Well, it's a secret, so don't tell anyone, but . . . I'm here to kill someone."

Dylan gritted his teeth and slid the pistol from beneath the jacket, settling it on his lap under the polished brass rail of the bar. He met Reece's pale blue eyes with his own. "That will be hard to do if you're dead," he said evenly.

Reece smiled smugly. "Tsk, tsk, Dylan," he said. "You know how time travel works. You can't kill me any more than I could kill you. That would destroy the timestream."

Now it was Dylan's turn to smile. "How do we know that this isn't the last time we meet, as well as the first?"

Reece's arrogance faltered visibly as he considered the agent's words. "Because I know you, Dylan," he said. "I know you pretty well. You wouldn't be able to resist pointing out that you've already killed me."

"Unless, by remembering this conversation, I decided to savor the knowledge every time we meet." Dylan winked malevolently. "I know myself pretty well, too."

Reece inhaled slowly, his jaw working as he ground his teeth. He glanced to the weapon upon which Dylan drummed his fingers. Finally, he spoke: "I doubt you're willing to take the chance."

"It's been a rough night," Dylan said malevolently. "Maybe I'm not in my right mind."

Reece sat back, taking up his whisky, making an effort to appear casual. "This is pointless," he declared, and sipped his drink.

"You're right," Dylan agreed, and jabbed the barrel of the pistol into Reece's abdomen, just above his left thigh. "I think I'll just kill you."

Reece stiffened, and swallowed with some effort. "Do it, and you'll watch the world around you crumble away." He glared at Dylan. "Do you really want to be responsible for the end of time?"

Dylan considered his options amid a whirlwind of images and thoughts, then breathed out tiredly, returning the pistol to his lap. "Just so you know, the only thing keeping you alive right now is my not knowing if this is our last encounter or not." He bore his eyes into Reece's. "But don't doubt for a moment that I am going to kill you . . . one day."

"Maybe," Reece said, then downed the rest of his whisky and knocked the glass on the bar. He slid from the stool and stood beside the bar, buttoning his jacket. He cocked his head slightly, effecting his previous arrogance. "We'll meet again, Agent Moon. Soon."

Dylan said nothing as Reece backed away, then turned and headed from the ball room. He waited until the man was out of sight before turning back to the bar, finding the bartender waiting with expected aplomb. "One more," Dylan said, then tossed his Scotch back. He winced as it burned down his throat.

***

Opening the door to the room was painful in and of itself, for the faint scent of Corinna's perfume still lingered in the air. Dylan was not a particularly emotional man; he had been in his younger years, but after seven decades, had become philosophical about the apparent inevitability that he would lose lovers now and then.

In Corinna's case, he was not quite sure how to react. Her proclamation of love had bothered him at the time, evoking instant anxiety over the knowledge that he would, most likely, at one point or another, lose her. And that was assuming he loved her in turn.

Which, as much as thought that might insult her memory, Dylan did not think he did.

He tossed the rolled-up jacket on the bed, then headed to the bathroom. He turned on only the small lamp beside the bed, wanting nothing more than basic light to see by. At the sink, he splashed some water on his face, looked at his reflection. 

The slight distortion of age – due to the synthflesh mask – suddenly bothered him, and in an impulsive movement, he ripped the microthin covering from his face. He sighed at the feel of the cool air on his real skin. The mask 'breathed,' enough to keep his face from sweating unnecessarily, but it was nevertheless somewhat numbing.

Dylan tossed the mask away, watching it land on the edge of the large tub. He could put it back on the following morning, when he needed to, but for the night, it was staying off. He ran the faucet, splashed his face again and again, scrubbed his hands with the hard soap provided by the hotel, then washed his neck. The shirt and undershirt came off, and his own ripe scent drifted up to his senses. A little soap and water took care of that, for the most part.

"M-Mr. Lord?"

The sound of the voice startled Dylan instantly, triggering reflexes he had long before developed. In a quick move, he spun around, his left hand shooting out. He grabbed the figure by the neck and hurled back onto the bed, rushing forward as she fell, bounced, and cried out in astonished fear. The girl's skirt flew up almost to her face as she rolled back onto her shoulders, revealing her slender legs and the panties that covered her sex.

"Mr. Lord! P-Please! It's me! Betty!"

Dylan stopped, immediately chastising himself. I'm on edge, he thought. I should have recognized her. He made an effort to calm himself, then reached for one of Betty's upraised ankles. He pulled her legs down, trying not to notice just how snug her undergarments were. Betty smoothed her dress back down, staring up at Dylan with a mixture of embarrassment and worry.

"Geez, Mr. Lord, I know it's been a crazy night, but you don't have'ta be that jumpy!" she declared, sitting up on the bed.

Dylan shook his head. "I'm sorry. I just wasn't expecting anyone to come into the room."

"Um . . . what about your wife?" she asked tentatively.

Dylan gritted his teeth, looking away from the young woman and thrusting his hands in his pockets. "She's, uh . . . not coming back."

Betty breathed in sharply, covering her mouth with her hands. "There was some people talking about a car being stolen, and a gun fight in the garage . . . ."

Dylan only nodded, mutely, unsure of what to say or reveal. "Yeah . . . I think I heard about that, too."

Betty was silent a long moment, looking down at her hands in her lap. The soft, hazy light made her look even younger than her years. "Mr. Lord," she said in a small voice. "I didn't tell anyone about what happened today. Just like you said, I went back to work and acted like nothing happened."

"Thank you, Betty." Dylan reached to his jacket on the bed beside her, picking it up. He didn't care that the pistols fell out, bouncing for a moment on the bed, nor that Betty gasped upon seeing them. He took out his cigarette case, quickly activated the scanner as he tucked a smoke between his lips. His eyes narrowed, and the edginess returned as he saw a couple of red blips in rather close proximity.

Foster Reece's walkers, no doubt . . . .

He snapped the case closed, lit his cigarette with a flip of the Zippo. He let the smoke trail lazily from his lips as he spoke to Betty, his eyes casually observing the door. "I'm not exactly who you think I am, Betty."

She frowned, studying his face. "Then . . . um . . . ." she stopped, pushing up on her knees, peering closely at Dylan's face. "You, um, look different, Mr. Lord."

Dylan cursed himself silently, having forgotten that he had taken off the synthflesh mask. "It's the light," he said dismissively. He captured her eyes with his, commanding her attention. "I need to know that I can trust you, Betty."

She sat back, looking nervous but also excited. "I didn't tell no one 'bout tonight, Mr. Lord. I swear on Jesus Christ's name." Emphasizing her point, Betty crossed herself.

Dylan allowed himself a small smile. He decided to take a chance. He needed help, after all, and as per Corinna's reasoning that 'girls like Betty are excellent sources of information,' figured he could do a lot worse than illicit the housekeeper's assistance.

"I'm an agent with the Bureau of Investigation," Dylan said. "Corinna wasn't my wife; she was my partner. We were up here to protect someone who, we believe, is going to be killed in two days."

Betty's lashes batted in surprise. "The . . . Bureau?" she asked. "Um . . . okay."

The corner of Dylan's mouth twitched. "I could use a little help keeping an eye on the man I have to protect."

The young woman balked, swallowing nervously. "Y-you . . . mean me?"

Dylan raised his hands cautiously. "You work here. You know your way around. I don't. Plus, you can find things out about him that I can't."

Betty took a breath. "Well . . . who is he?"

Dylan smiled with some relief. "Michael Craig," he said, then took a drag off the cigarette as he watched the girl's reaction.

Betty gaped. "That fopper?" she cried. "Why would anybody want to bury that dandy?"

He chuckled at her indignant words. "Well, I can't exactly tell you why, of course."

"Oh, of course," Betty said in quick agreement. She shuddered slightly, a nervous look crossing her pretty face. "Um . . . I'm not gonna get hurt, am I?"

Dylan shook his head slowly, giving the girl an intent look. "I'll make sure nothing happens to you. I promise."

Betty relaxed somewhat, and managed to let out a small smile. Her eyes wandered over Dylan's muscular chest, as if noticing for the first time that he was shirtless. Her cheeks and the tops of her breasts colored again, and her lips parted slightly. "Um . . . what do you want me to do, Mr. Lord?"

Dylan pulled on his cigarette, let out a stream of smoke. "Listen to me carefully, Betty . . . ."

***

Betty wasn't all that comfortable with 'Mr. Lord's' plan, but she agreed to go through with it. She wondered why she had been so quick to join in with the man; was it because of that strong, intense sense of arousal she had first felt when their eyes met? Or was it because she was being given the chance to do more than simply survive? In her short life, Betty had known little more than struggle and hardship. 'Altruism' was a concept alien to her, yet an attractive one. Perhaps, through aiding the Bureau of Investigation agent, she might see some positive changes in her own life. Perhaps, at last, God might smile upon her.

A tentative knock upon Mr. Michael Craig's door was met, a few moments later, by a hulking, dark-faced man in a suit. Betty shifted nervously on her feet, leaning on the wooden handle of the cloth-covered cart before her. "Room service," she said.

The man grunted, then stepped aside, allowing Betty into the room. The wheels of the cart squeaked, making her fidget. She heard a man speaking animatedly from somewhere within the spacious suite, and finally spied the foppish man, clad in a silken robe, as he held a phone receiver to his ear.

"No, not roses," he was saying in irritation. "I detest roses. Carnations. Mums. I want lively flowers . . . yes. Soon as possible, would you? Tut-tut!" He dropped the phone in its cradle, then turned to look upon Betty and the cart she bore forward. "Well. I certainly hope you have brought the correct order. Your tip depends upon it."

Betty straightened, hands clasped before her demurely. "I trust that everything is in order, Mr. Craig."

The self-impressed man rolled his eyes, then took up the lid of one of the plates. He looked upon the food beneath with superior eyes. "Not bad, I suppose," I commented, then checked another, and another. Finally, he looked to Betty with a perturbed expression. "My receipt?"

Hastily, Betty offered up the slip of paper. Craig scribbled on it, saying, "I suppose your service is worth a few dollars," he said. He shoved the receipt back.

Betty backed away. "Thank, you, Mr. Craig," she said, then left the room.

***

She watched him as he stared into the inner cover of his cigarette case. Mr. Lord sat on the edge of the bed, looking as engrossed as if he was reading the works of Hemmingway, Betty figured. She stood off to the side, unsure of what to say, or do. Finally, however, her curiosity could not be denied. "Um, what'cha doing?"

He didn't look up from the holographic screen on the inside of the case. "I'm tracking him," he said. "The chemical you put in his food will—" he stopped, lifting his head. He smiled sheepishly. She wouldn't know what the hell I'm talking about. "Don't worry about it."

Betty stepped closer, gingerly sitting down upon the far corner of the bed. "What's it like, Mr. Lord, being an agent for the Bureau?" she asked.

The case snapped closed with a sharp, metallic sound. His lips curled slightly. "Dylan," he said.

Betty frowned. "Huh?"

He looked to her, his smile remaining. "My name's Dylan. 'Maxwell Lord' is just a cover."

Betty blinked, then smiled softly. "Oh," she said. "Dylan. I like that."

He nodded noncommittally. "It isn't easy," he said, answering her initial question. "Sometimes, it's a pretty lonely life. But I . . . I know that what I'm doing is right."

Betty's smile lingered, albeit a bit strained. "You, um, you married?" she asked.

Dylan chuckled darkly. "I was," he said. He thought about his wife, divorced from him more than twenty years before. "It didn't work out."

Betty shifted slightly, scooting a little closer on the bed. "Oh." She picked at her rough-edged nails. "And, um . . . your . . . I mean, your partner. Was she, um—"

Dylan stopped her questions with a direct look. "We were very close."

The young woman shuddered slightly, not only because of the hard look in Dylan's eyes, but also because of her burgeoning desire. She felt only strength radiating from him. It was seductive to her, calling forth flames from her libido in a way in which no man ever had. Add to that Dylan's proclamation that he and his 'wife' had merely been "close" . . . .

Tentatively, she reached for Dylan's arm, enjoying the feel of the soft dark hairs against her fingers. "I'm sorry," she whispered.

He smiled amiably, perhaps even affectionately, wondering again why he felt so comfortable with this woman, this girl who was nearly a fourth his age. And not just comfortable, but . . . aroused. It bothered him; Corinna was dead, and even if he had not felt the same way for her as she had for him, Dylan did not want to think he was so callous as to so readily accept her passing and move on.

Yet there was no denying a basic – and growing – desire for the young woman beside him. But it was not right. Dylan had a job to do; aside from that, there was Corinna's memory to consider. Reluctantly, he stood, leaving Betty on the bed, and snapped the cigarette case closed after taking two of them out. He handed one to the girl, lit it for her, then lit his own as he fell into 'business mode.'

"I hope you didn't have any trouble with Mr. Craig," he said.

Betty scoffed, rolling her eyes. "Not a bit. He's so wrapped up in his mamby-pamby world that he hardly noticed me."

The corner of Dylan's mouth twitched with a smile. "That's probably a good thing," he said. "The less he notices, the better. If he thinks he's being watched, he might alter his normal routine . . . and that could make for problems."

Betty cocked her head, narrowing her eyes. "You know, you don't talk like anyone I've ever met," she said. "I've met fellas from Manhattan to Miami, Connecticut to California. Ain't nobody talks like you that I ever met."

Dylan pursed his lips. "I'm from Texas," he said.

Her eyes narrowed even more, and she wagged a finger at Dylan. "No, you're not," she said. "I met some of them oil barons and cowboys. They have that twang when they speak. You don't."

Dylan breathed in, regarding Betty. "It doesn't really matter where I'm from," he said. "Right now, my job is important."

Betty nodded and sat up straight. "Right," she agreed, then smiled as if they shared a private joke. The smile faded. "So, um, what do you want me to do now, Mr. L—" she caught herself with a faint blush, then continued: "I mean . . . Dylan."

"Nothing," he said, evoking a mildly surprised expression from Betty. "Just go about your normal duties. If I need you, I'll let you know."

Betty's eyes fell. She looked despondent, though she tried to hide it. "Oh."

Dylan felt for the girl. He stepped closer, cupping her chin in his hand. Betty's eyes were wide and docile, yet there was something much stronger behind them. "You've already helped me more than you know," he said. "Not too many people would have."

Betty beamed. "I like the idea of doing something for someone else," she said. "I ain't never had the opportunity before. Or the reason."

Dylan sat back upon the bed, smoking his cigarette. "You haven't had the easiest life, have you?"

Betty blushed, casting her gaze down. "It ain't been as bad as some I've seen. My old man wasn't the nicest, but he provided for us. Taught us how to rely on ourselves more than the world outside."

Dylan nodded with a smile. "You have brothers, sisters?"

Betty pulled on her cigarette. "One older brother," she said, looking sad for a moment. "He got in with some rough types. Been spending the last three years in Sing-Sing. Got three more to go."

Impulsively, Dylan slipped his arm around the young woman, pulling her against his shoulder. She offered no resistance. "Everyone makes mistakes," he said, then chuckled. "God knows I'm no angel."

Slowly, Betty lifted her head, her eyes wide, round, innocent . . . yet with a sexy mischievousness to them. "Funny," she said. "You look like a guardian angel to me."

***

"Agent Moon, please hold for the Director."

Dylan cursed under his breath. He knew he should have called HQ the night before, but grief, anger and Scotch had all combined to drain his ability to coalesce the day's activities into a concise mission report. Now, the curtness of De La O's statement made Dylan think he was about to get the business end of Colonel Naveen's whip-like tongue.




TMA: Agent Moon Ch. 02



He was not disappointed. "Care to tell me why you didn't contact us last night, agent?"

Dylan sighed in response to the Director's acidic tone. "It was a rough night," he growled. "But I'm still on schedule, and I'm tracking Craig."

Naveen paused on the other end. "I know that Agent Bellew's loss can not have been easy to take, Moon," she said. "But you, more than anyone under my command, have to understand that tragedies like this happen, and—"

"Yes. I know," he interrupted. He ran his hand through his hair, suddenly hating the greasy feel it left along his fingers. "I should have called last night. I should have given you an update, assured you that I was still on the clock. But I like to think that you would know I have too much integrity to let Cori's loss affect my ability to see this mission through."

"I would really like to believe that, agent," she responded.

Dylan bristled a moment, thinking how much more life experience he had over the thirtysomething director he served. But he forced down his pride and ego. Col. Naveen ran an incredibly complex and sensitive operation, one that was potentially more vital than any other agency in the world. He could not fault her cautionary skepticism.

"I made you – I made the TMA – a promise," Dylan said. "An oath that I take as seriously as the one I gave my department and the FBI. I don't back down, Colonel. And I've never failed. I'm not about to now."

There came a faint sigh from the other end, barely filtered through digital technology and over seven decades of time difference. "That's good to hear, agent. So. You say you have a line on Craig? You're keeping an eye on him?"

Dylan nodded. "I am. But . . . there's a problem."

"What kind of problem?"

"Does the name Foster Reece mean anything to you?"

He heard the Director curse under her breath. "We know of him. He's killed two of our agents. He's very slippery."

"He told me our meeting was not the first one we've had. I . . . I got the impression that, well, there's something personal between us."

Naveen was silent on the other end for a moment. "The only advantage the Rectifiers have is that they know what they are doing before we do," she said. "We can only be reactive; they can be proactive, in some respects."

"Reece made it clear that he and I have met before, at least, in his memory. I guess I should find comfort in that. After all, if he kills me now, he changes the timestream. Who knows what would happen then."

"But neither can you kill him," Naveen said. "You don't know if this is the last time you'll meet."

"I know that. But I'd say my odds are better than his."

"Dylan." The Director's voice was firm, her tone compounded by her use of his first name. "Don't be flippant about taking chances. You took one already when you gunned down those men in the parking garage. You had no way of knowing that they were Walkers. Don't take that risk again."

Dylan huffed. "You're right," he said. "My job is to keep Michael Craig away from the pine box, not to put someone else in it."

"Exactly. You're a bodyguard, Moon. Not a soldier. Not this time, at any rate. Protect your principal, that's your directive."

Dylan managed a smile. "Good thing I have help, then."

"What do you mean?"

"Just a girl here, who works at the hotel," he said dismissively. "She thinks I'm with the Bureau of Investigation. I'm not putting her in any danger."

The Director was quiet again. Dylan could faintly hear conversation in the background, but not enough to distinguish any voices. Naveen returned: "That may not be a bad idea," she said. "Agents have often made good use of locals. So long as you don't, eh, involve her too much, you should be fine. But keep her close. Control what she knows."

Dylan frowned slightly. He could not shake the instant and inexorable feeling that there was something the Director was not telling him. But he decided not to press it; doing so would produce nothing, he knew. "I can keep things tight," he said.

"Good. This mission is in your hands, agent. There's no backup, no second chances, and nothing but the worst of consequences if you fail. You have to succeed."

Dylan ground his teeth. "I will. I promise."

"I have faith in you, Agent Moon."

Dylan smiled. "I'll give you an update tomorrow."

***

To be continued . . . .



TMA: Agent Moon Ch. 03



As with the second chapter, this third installment into the missions of the Temporal Management Agency's most unusual agent is more story than sex. But I hope you will still enjoy.

***

This is the night, Dylan thought as he moved through the crowd in the ballroom. Every step he made was deliberate, calculated to keep him within range of his charge. The weight of the pistols seated rather comfortably beneath his belt at the small of his back reminded him constantly of the deadly and serious nature of his mission. He could not fail, he knew. There was no option for it.

Louis Armstrong grinned on the stage as he swayed on his feet, powerful lungs belting out a guttural rendition of "Heebie Jeebies," replete with the requisite and rowdy scat. Women danced in 'flapper' style; the young and spoiled guest of honor, 'Kitty' Hutton, was getting quite a bit of attention from her antics. Dylan might have let himself enjoy the moment, had he not been so devoted to his mission.

All day long, he had been tracking Mr. Michael Craig, virtually watching the man as a tiny blue dot on the screen inside his cigarette case, watching the red Walkers as they remained close, but never too close; it was akin to being a passive voyeur in a slow-moving video game. Waiting for the moment to jump in and turn the tide.

That moment was nigh, Dylan felt. His nerves were on edge. Adrenaline was pumping steadily, but not to excess, keeping him alert and ready to act. It was that sense of 'delicious anticipation' that he always relished. The fierce, yet quiet, calm before the maelstrom.

He spied Betty, making her rounds as expected, small round tray topped with flutes of bubbly balanced upon a fine-boned hand. She remained close, yet not obviously so; she had learned quickly, Dylan felt, or perhaps she simply had an instinct for subterfuge. Her eyes caught his, briefly, and she smiled slyly. He gave her a quick, almost imperceptible nod, her silent cue. Betty's smile remained, albeit with some anxiety, and she set down her tray.

She enjoys this, Dylan thought, watching Betty slipping from the room. Stepping into the fantasy of a dangerous life, living out the melodrama that had only been shown to her on a shimmering, black-and-white screen. For her, the truth of the matter is of no consequence. It is only the fantasy.

"Dear friends!" shouted a middle-aged man, stepping up onto the stage after Satchmo had finished his song. He waited out the applause heaped upon Armstrong with an amiable grin, shaking the stocky black man's hand. "Dear friends!" he cried again, and the hubbub faded. The eyes of the man – Mr. Hutton – glittered with mirth. "And not so dear friends . . . ."

Scattered laughter drifted through the crowd as everyone faced the stage. The debutante herself gave her father an annoyed look, coupled with a forced, expected smile as she clapped lazily. Dylan, however, was not watching the deb's father; he kept his eye on Michael Craig, who beamed with false effulgence. The foppish man's bodyguards lingered several steps away, preoccupied with plates of food from the buffet. Dylan doubted they had been hired in their capacity for any other reason than for their size.

Mr. Hutton continued: "In all seriousness, folks, I am very touched that you all turned out for my little girl's debut. Kitty, come up here! Come on!"

More applause sounded, but it fell like an inconsequential shower around Dylan. His eyes darted from Craig for a moment, to the cigarette case he slipped from within his jacket. His eyes narrowed, jaw set in stone as he read the numerous red blips of the Walkers moving closer. Dylan snapped the case closed, returned it to his pocket. He was able to guess where the Walkers were in the crowd, and spotted a few of them rather easily. Their expressionless faces and blank stares gave them away.

Dylan did not think about what he was doing. He reacted on instinct combined with the intricacies of his training and experience, already visualizing what was about to happen even before it occurred. Pushing his way through the crowd, he felt for one of the pistols, fingers curling around the butt of the weapon.

Tactically, Dylan marked the positions of the Walkers, even though he could not see them all. If Craig was at his twelve o'clock position, then the Walkers approached from two, five, and ten. And they were approaching fast.

"Mr. Craig," Dylan said, stepping before the slender, effeminate man, blocking his view of the stage.

Michael Craig frowned, looking almost disgusted. "Excuse me, sir, but—"

Dylan grinned crookedly, slipping the pistol free. "Get down," he said in a calm voice, quickly settling a hand on Craig's narrow shoulder. The weapon he produced made Craig's eyes widen in fear and shock, making it easier for him to fall to his knees as Dylan pushed down. Around the two men, women shrieked in fear and startlement, men gasped and stepped back, pushing their wives, mistresses and lovers behind them.

As Craig dropped, Dylan sighted along the slide of the .45, aiming for the closest Walker. The man stumbled a moment, then reached inside his jacket. Dylan did not wait to see what the man would withdraw; he squeezed the trigger once, resulting in a thunderclap that made those around him wince, cry, and shout in alarm.

The target of Dylan's deadly aim shuddered once, his blank face grimacing a moment before it fell. He expelled a single breath, wavered on suddenly weak legs, then glanced down to his chest. Hands ripped open the vest beneath his jacket, revealing a dark hole in the middle of his crisp white shirt, around which was rapidly growing dark red stain.

The man looked back to Dylan, eyes suddenly wide and wondering. He emitted a single grunt, then collapsed to the ground, already dead.

Chaos erupted, then, as Dylan had hoped. The uproarious cacophony that filled the ball room made for better cover than a bodysuit of kevlar as Dylan scooped up Michael Craig and casually hoisted him upon his left shoulder. As men and women ran in all directions, confounding the other Walkers' attempts to reach their target, Dylan stepped over the corpse of his foe, heading swiftly to one of the service exits. He kicked open the swinging doors, startling a young man on the other side, whose eyes flew open wide.

"Get out," growled Dylan. The kid – maybe seventeen or eighteen – almost tripped on his own feet before darting past and into the ballroom. The doors swayed and flapped behind him as Dylan increased his speed, almost breaking into a jog. Craig, he figured, was either monumentally submissive, or – more likely, judging by the way the man's arms flapped against his butt and legs – had passed out.

As he rounded a corner within the service hallway, Dylan nearly trampled a rotund man in a chef's uniform. "What the Devil-oh!" the man exclaimed, stumbling back.

Hard eyes stared into the chef's. "The door to the loading dock," he said with a hard edge in his voice. It was a command, one the chef – of appropriate age to have served in the Great War – quickly responded to. A quivering hand pointed the way, through stainless-steel swinging doors.

Dylan's mouth twitched for a moment in what could have been a smile. "Thanks," he said, then headed toward the doors.

"Hey!"

"Stop right there!"

Dylan reacted with quick, almost inhumanly fast movements, whirling around and extending his arm, sighting down the slide of the .45 toward the two hulking, burly men that bumbled on their feet in the corridor. They stopped about thirty feet away, fear and wonder on their faces, holding pistols that seemed too tiny in their beefy hands. Michael Craig's ineffectual bodyguards. Dylan gave them a look of disdain. Amateurs.

"Put the irons on the floor, gentlemen," Dylan growled. "I won't ask twice. Take a shot at me, and you'll not only kill your boss, but get your next paycheck delivered to a pine box."

The two brutes hesitated, sharing anxious looks.

Dylan cocked the hammer on his pistol. "Three . . . two . . ."

The two men fidgeted under Dylan's intimidating stare, and quickly set their firearms on the floor.

"Kick them to me," Dylan ordered.

Dutifully, like mindless soldiers, the men did so, making the pistols scrape loudly across the floor toward him. One banked off the wall and spun about in place in the hallway. Dylan glanced to the chef, still immobile with shock and wonder.

"Pick them up, bring them to me," Dylan directed. He never let his eyes leave the two men, never lowered his weapon. Peripherally, he watched the chef move, then stumble into his field of view. Quickly, the man retrieved the pistols and brought them to Dylan, who took them quickly. "Thanks," he said snidely, then turned and headed through the swinging steel doors.

The two bodyguards regarded each other in confusion. "Whatta we do now?" one asked. The other simply shrugged.

***

The rear door of the loading dock, beside the large, closed, scrolling portal through which deliveries were taken, flew open harshly, slamming against the wall amid a shower of pulverized concrete. Dylan took the steel steps to the ground, approaching a dark-painted sedan as it idled. He jerked open the rear door and deposited the stunned body of Michael Craig within.

"You should go," he said to the young woman behind the wheel.

She looked over her shoulder, eyes wide and anxious. "But . . . I thought you wanted me to help!" Betty declared.

He glanced to her beneath a hard brow. "And you have. But you're not trained for this. I won't have your death on my conscience."

Betty gritted her teeth, thinking for a moment. "I wanna help you, Dylan."

He shot her a look. "You don't know what—" he began.

"And I don't care!" she shouted vehemently. She took a breath, steeled her eyes. "I'm not gettin' outta this car."

Dylan softened a bit, imploring her with his eyes. "I can't let you get hurt," he said with more meaning than she would know.

She smiled then, an inscrutable expression that momentarily made Dylan wonder if this girl understood more than he had assumed. "You won't," she said, her accent suddenly sweet and endearing once more. "You promised me, remember?"

Just like that, and the matter was settled. Dylan could have argued with her, he knew, could even have threatened her. But he did not. There was a part of him that wanted this sweet, voluptuous young woman at his side. The same part that had felt that strange, powerful, and undeniable attraction upon their first meeting.

"Fine," he snapped as he slid into the passenger seat, slamming the door closed. He did not look to Betty. "Get us away from here. The more secluded, the better." Dylan was following Corinna's basic plan, to get away from a public place, to create a battlefield in which he had the upper hand.

"There's a place, about half an hour away," Betty said as she turned the wheel, bringing the sedan around. "Just a broken-down old house. We'll be safe there."

Dylan watched the girl as she drove, admiring the fierceness on her face, the obvious concentration. They were traits he had seen amongst the best officers and agents in his day. "Are you sure?"

She winked briefly, with a tug at the corner of her mouth. "It's getting to be off-season . . . no one goes there now." She chuckled at Dylan's wondering look. "It's a place we go to, to . . . well, you know. Mess around."

Dylan pursed his lips, then looked to the back seat as Betty drove the sedan. "You all right back there, Mr. Craig?"

The effeminate man sat up, giving Dylan a look of abject fear. "A-are you going to kill me?" he asked.

"Believe it or not, I'm saving your life. There's a man named Foster Reece after you. He—"

"Foster Reece? I know him!" exclaimed Craig, his face a mask of consternation. "He just made a contribution to my company! Why would he invest in me if he was going to kill me?"

"Because he wanted to gain your confidence," Dylan answered. "It's a classic tactic. I'll bet he offered to have lunch, too."

"Eh, well . . . he suggested drinks tonight, after the party. You know . . . private."

Craig's skittishness made Dylan chuckle. "I don't care that you're homosexual, Craig," he said. "Believe me, I won't tell anyone."

The millionaire shifted uncomfortably and touched his chin, glancing out the window. "I-I don't know what you're talking about," he said.

"Right," said Dylan, turning back around. He caught Betty giving him a little smile before she returned her attention to the road.

***

The house was not much to look at; it had obviously lain abandoned for a number of years, judging by the overgrowth surrounding the unlit windows. It was a tiny building, little more than a shack, with cracked boards on the porch and glass missing from one of the front windows.

"How many rooms?" asked Dylan as he pulled Craig from the car.

"Just three," Betty responded, having changed into simple flat shoes. She still looked – Dylan had to admit – delectable in the bust-revealing dress she wore. "Only one bedroom. They ain't much to look at, but they're mostly clean. Water works, but the lighting don't."

"Probably a good thing," muttered Dylan. "I don't suppose you have a key for the place?"

Betty chuckled and bounded onto the rickety porch, avoiding the weak boards. She twisted the handle and pushed the door open. "Don't need one," she said. "Only people who ever come here are those of us from the resort."

"You don't think any of them will be coming tonight?"

Betty shook her head. "Nope. We always talk about it first, since only Max has a car."

Dylan nodded, not really caring who 'Max' was. It was enough to be more or less assuaged in his anxiety that other innocents might become involved. With Michael Craig before him, Dylan headed into the house. Betty lead the way, taking them through the spartan house. There was little furniture, all of which showed signs of disrepair and blatant vandalism. The main room sported a couple of well-worn mattresses and numerous blankets, scattered sheaves of newspaper, and more than a few empty rum and bourbon bottles. Melted candles and candle stumps were set upon the rickety coffee table, or upon pieces of wood or cinder block.

"This place is disgusting!" exclaimed Craig, gingerly stepping through the rubbish. "I can't believe you brought me here."

Dylan fixed the effeminate man a look. "I could always take you back," he said in an ominous tone. "That would make it easier for Reece."

Craig stared back. "At least I would have more protection," he said. "My bodyguards are—"

"They're clumsy bruisers with no training and no nerve," Dylan said quickly. "You want to live through tonight, you'll do as I say."

Craig scoffed. "I don't think I like your tone."

"Tough. Get used to it," Dylan snapped, then pushed the man – albeit gently – ahead of him. Over Craig's head, he saw Betty's bemused face, which she tried to hide. The girl opened a door to what Dylan presumed was the bedroom, as evidenced by the large, four-poster bed and relatively intact dresser and vanity.

"Well . . . it's not too bad," said Craig. "At least the bed looks somewhat . . . clean."

"Good. This is your room, then," declared the agent. He glanced to his pocket watch – four hours, he thought – then addressed Betty. "I'm going to need supplies to cover the windows. Wooden boards, planks, anything."

Betty shrugged. "There's wooden boards all over the place," she said. "I think there's even some tools in the attic."

"What? You're going to board up the windows?" gasped Craig. "Trying to keep me from getting out? You don't trust me?"

Dylan faced the smallish man. "I don't want to risk anyone shooting you through a window, much less crawling in to slip a knife in your neck while you sleep," he said firmly. "And no, I don't trust you."

Craig sputtered, but said nothing. Dylan addressed he and Betty. "Come on, you two. We don't have much time to get this place secure."

***

The tools Betty had mentioned consisted merely of a couple of rusty hammers, a screwdriver, and thankfully, a handful of stout iron nails. Pulling boards from the floor in the kitchen, and cannibalizing the front porch, the three of them had the bedroom windows covered in little time. Finding a ball of twine in a kitchen drawer, Dylan lay tripwires around the house, just inches above the ground, hidden by leaves and underbrush and attached to bottles balanced upon wooden stumps.

Craig complained throughout the entire hour it took them to more or less secure the house, mewling like a child when he caught a splinter in his finger. Betty consoled the man somewhat, but she was quickly growing tired of his whining. More than once, she rolled her eyes at the man.

After helping their charge pick out the splinter and wash his hands in the master bath, Betty returned to the main room, finding Dylan seated upon one of the mattresses, an array of weapons before him. Aside from the four firearms, Dylan had found rusty knives in the kitchen. Not the most formidable of weapons, but they would do in a pinch.

"I, uh, think Mr. Craig's gonna lick his wounds for a while," she said, leaning against the doorway. She watched as Dylan field stripped the four pistols. "You, um, seem pretty calm."

Dylan shrugged indifferently. "I've been in many situations like this before," he said. "It almost becomes a formula."

She took a hesitant step closer. "But, um . . . you look really young. I mean, I guess you were using makeup or something earlier, you know, to play the part, but . . . you ain't much older than me."

Dylan lifted his head with a wan smile. "Clean living," he joked. "I'm a lot older than you think I am."

Betty shuffled a bit on her feet, toying with the hem of her skirt. "Well, I don't care if you're twenty-five or thirty-five, or even forty. You're, uh . . . well . . . ." she trailed off, blushing, her eyes glittering in the near lack of light. "Um, I think I'll light some candles."

Dylan watched her a moment as the girl moved about awkwardly, kneeling beside candles and producing a box of matches to light them. Dylan had no doubt whatsoever that what he felt radiating from her was arousal, desire. Seven decades of life had shown him a few things about reading women, after all.

"You know, when I first started enforcement," Dylan said as he cleaned the slide of one of the pistols. "I had this romantic idea about it. Save the innocent, protect the weak. Help people."

Betty sat upon an adjacent mattress, her features turned a soft, amber hue by the flickering glow of the candle beside her. "Isn't that what you do?"

Dylan shrugged. "I guess if you boiled it down to simplicities, sure," he said. He smiled ruefully. "But there are always politics involved. Now more than ever. There are things I can do, and things I can't, even though I want to." Such as warning you that you're going to die on Valentine's Day in just over a year . . . .

Her brow furrowed, strangely making her face seem even more young and innocent. "I don't understand."

Dylan chuckled. "No, I guess not," he said. He assembled the pistol he had been cleaning, loaded it with a smooth rack of the slide. He smiled upon her. "It's not important."

Betty curled her legs up, wrapping her arms around her knees. She did not seem to mind that, the way she was sitting, her nearly-naked thighs framed the slim strip of fabric that covered her sex. "Dylan."

He took up another pistol, detaching the slide and taking out the barrel. "Yes."

"How close were you? I mean, with your . . . your partner."

He regarded her with narrowed eyes. "Didn't we talk about this?"

Betty's eyes flickered in the candlelight. "Did you love her?"

Dylan thought a moment, working his jaw. "Cory was special. She was . . . different," he said. His eyes dipped. "She saved my life, and that opened a whole different realm of emotions for me. But love is . . . that's a complicated thing."




TMA: Agent Moon Ch. 03



She nodded in agreement, but Dylan was fairly certain Betty had never known what it was like to be in love. "So, um, where are you going after this?" she asked.

Dylan smiled crookedly. "Back home," he said.

"Where's that?"

"Right now, Nebraska."

The girl wrinkled her brow. "Nebraska? I never pegged you for a corn farmer."

He chuckled. "Far from it," Dylan said. "That's, eh, just where they're sending me."

"So, that's pretty much it? You probably won't make it back this way again, huh?"

Dylan gave the girl a regretful smile. "Probably not."

Betty said nothing, just settled her chin to her knees and rocked back and forth for a few moments. She held a contemplative mask on her face, watching as Dylan cleaned the various firearms. Now and then, she would lift her head, full lips parting as if she were about to speak, but she remained silent.

"What is it, Betty?" he asked at last, his voice startling the girl. But just as she was about to respond, there came the sound of a bottle clattering to the ground outside the house. Dylan shot to his feet in an instant, snatching up one of the clean and loaded pistols. He gave Betty a quick look, with a single finger over his lips urging silence.

Betty nodded, her eyes wide and quivering with just the barest hint of anxiety. Dylan gestured with his hand, indicating for her to retreat to the bedroom. With a quick nod, the girl obeyed, pushing open the creaking portal as Dylan approached the front door. He peripherally listened to a hushed conversation between Betty and Michael Craig, though he could not quite catch the words.

He tipped open the door just enough to peer outside. The moon, though not quite full, did an ample job of painting the surrounding landscape in broad strokes of ivory light. The closest trees were a good thirty paces away, yet they were swallowed in shadow. There could have been a man with a weapon pointed at his head, and even Dylan's perfect vision would not be able to discern him.

He chanced a moment, poking his head out and looking left and right. He sniffed the air, trying to detect cologne or sweat, listened for tell-tale sounds such as footprints and breathing. He heard a skittering noise coming from around the corner, sounding like a rodent. His deduction told him what had caused the bottle to tip over, yet he remained cautious as he exited the door and stepped carefully to the edge of the house. He was careful to test the boards that remained before setting his weight upon them. A couple creaked slightly.

Reaching the corner, he leaned around the corner, pistol leading the way. What he thought had happened was revealed as a grey cat looked up at him, standing over the fallen bottle. For a moment, then animal froze, then darted away through the underbrush. Dylan stooped and replaced the bottle upon its short stump.

Still on alert, Dylan retraced his steps, scanning the dark treeline. He only relaxed once he was inside the house once more and the door was closed.

"What was it?" camed Betty's tentative voice from the bedroom.

"Just a cat," Dylan said, smiling warmly upon the girl. "How's Craig?"

Betty gave a distasteful look and stepped into the room, closing the bedroom door. "He's just . . . sitting in a corner, wrapped up in a blanket. I think he's going loony."

"Maybe not the worst reaction," Dylan commented, taking out his pocket watch. Three hours, he thought.

Betty suddenly chuckled, but muffled it quickly with her hand over her mouth. Dylan looked to the girl as she leaned against a rickety table.

"Something funny?"

She waved her hand dismissively. "It's just . . . well, when you looked at the time, it reminded me of an old joke. Something I heard growing up in boarding school."

Dylan smiled. "What was it?"

Betty's cheeks glowed slightly. "It . . . it's not really that funny."

"No, come on," urged Dylan. "I could use a good laugh."

Betty huffed, but her dimples still showed. "It goes like this: A boy sees another boy sitting on the steps of the school, and he looks real confused. The first boy asks, 'what's wrong?' And the second boy says, 'I've been asking people what time it is all day, and I keep getting different answers.'"

Dylan chuckled under his breath, casting his eyes down.

"I know, it's terrible," Betty lamented, her rouge deepening.

"It really is," agreed Dylan as his smile grew.

The girl snorted suddenly, then covered her mouth again as she laughed. "Well, this ain't exactly Vaudeville," she said, gesturing to their surroundings.

Dylan waited for his smile to fade before he asked, "You grew up in a boarding house, right?"

Betty nodded, dropping onto one of the dirty mattresses. "My mother died when I was born," she said. "I got put into an orphanage, and when I was old enough, they sent me to boarding schools. I guess I wasn't the best student; I was always getting in scuffles and the like."

Dylan took a seat at the end of the mattress. "Believe it or not, that sounds very familiar. I grew up in an orphanage, then a boarding school as well."

Betty cocked her head, her expression mildly incredulous. "No fooling?"

Dylan shook his head with a rueful smile. "My mother died right after I was born, too. Don't really know how. But the sisters of Our Lady of Eternal Hope were pretty good to me."

Betty blinked once, then stared, her lips parting slowly. "'Eternal Hope?'" she asked. "In Brooklyn?"

Dylan studied the girl's face a moment, feeling a sense of astonishment touch his mind. "Don't tell me . . . ."

She slapped a hand over her mouth. "Oh, Jesus, Mary and Joseph," she intoned, her words slightly muffled. "That's unbelievable."

A soft, amazed laugh escaped Dylan's lips. "Yes, it is."

"Was Sister Beatrice there?" Betty asked excitedly. "She was my favorite. She always made the Bible fun to read. But maybe that was since she was so young."

Dylan chuckled. "I remember her," he said. Although the woman I remember was in her late thirties and not very entertaining.

Betty's eyes glittered. "Wow. Imagine the odds, huh?"

Dylan nodded. "You know, Betty . . . ."

"Yeah?"

Dylan studied her pretty, freckled young face. For a moment, he tried to remember when he was her age. Five decades and more had passed since those precious years. The Korean War was drawing to a close, and Elvis Presley had not even made his first album. The fifties had been such an innocent time for him, at least until he joined the force and real life latched onto his neck with a stranglehold. Damn. Look how much has happened since . . . .

He blinked, tearing his eyes away from the girl's. "I wanted to ask you about something," he said, finding an excuse to study the door. "About . . . what you were expecting the other night. In the closet."

Betty didn't say anything for long moments, prompting Dylan to look back to her. The young woman was looking at her feet, nibbling her fingernails. Dylan could just make out a touch of color on her cheeks.

"I don't make judgments on other people, Betty."

She lifted her head, eyes wide and fretful. "I been at that damn hotel for two years," she said. "They pay all right, but sometimes . . . well, sometimes we can make some extra money. Mr. Starkweather usually sets it up, but we can, you know, if we're discrete about it . . . ." Betty trailed off, blushing deeply once more, and cast her eyes down. "I don't do it much, and I really don't like it, but . . . well, ten bucks is ten bucks. That's a lot of clams for a girl like me."

"Like I said, Betty, I don't judge anyone."

She mumbled something, lips barely moving.

"What was that?"

"Nothing. I didn't say nothing."

Dylan was about to speak again when he tensed, hearing a slight scraping noise through the door. Betty had obviously not detected the sound, for she acted no different. "Betty," Dylan said in a soft voice. "Don't make any noise, don't say anything, just go to the back room."

She lifted her head questioningly.

"Do it," hissed Dylan, pushing to his feet. "Now!"

Betty paused for only brief moment before scrambling to her feet and darting to the bedroom door. It creaked slightly as she stepped through, then again as she closed it – but not completely. She watched as Dylan, pistol in hand, peeked through the front door. He hesitated a moment, then stepped through. Betty caught her breath, feeling anxiety creeping up her thighs and tingling in the pit of her stomach.

Please, God, don't let anything happen to him.

***

There was no one on the porch, but Dylan felt that familiar, eerie sensation that he was not alone as soon as he stepped outside. He often wondered, throughout his career, if he possessed some sort of psychic ability, but always dismissed his uncanny alertness to a 'heightened perception of things.'

Such as what he felt at that moment. The stirring of the wind, the rustle of leaves in the trees, a faint creaking of a board somewhere on the house . . . behind and above him.

He dove forward, spinning lengthwise in the air, looking up toward the roof over the slide of the sidearm he held in a two-handed grip. He fired once at the moon-illumined figure before falling to the ground, and that single shot found its mark in the center of the man's chest. The Walker spasmed, pitching backward, slamming into the roof and rolling down to fall upon the ground. Dirt and detritus exploded around the body in a cloud.

Dylan jumped to his feet, looking around, anticipating more of the Walker's kind. He looked, listened, senses on high alert. He felt the breeze across his skin, the chill in the air. In the darkness, owls hooted and insects chirped. But there was something else. A presence.

"Reece," he said aloud.

A dark chuckle rolled out from the darkness of the trees. Dylan looked, crouching to make himself less of a target, sharp eyes sweeping the shadows over the barrel of his weapon.



Dylan ground his teeth, feeling invaded at hearing Foster Reece's words in his mind. 







 Dylan looked around, trying to peer through the shadows in the trees. 

Dylan could almost hear the grim chuckle as Reece responded. 

Anxiously, Dylan looked to the house, frozen for a moment by his own fears of what may have happened inside while he had been out. Curse me for a fool, he thought, then bolted for the door. The flimsy portal nearly flew off its hinges as he stormed within, pistol leading the way.

"Betty?" he called.

The bedroom door creaked open. The girl's face glowed faintly in the light streaming through the door. Her eyes were wide and apprehensive. "Dylan?"

"Is everything all right? How's Craig?"

She glanced behind her. "Um, he's in the bathroom. You know . . . tossing his cookies. Is, um, is everything okay?"

Dylan closed the door behind him, then stepped gingerly toward the trembling girl. Betty gave him a furtive look; she was clearly afraid. Briefly, Dylan touched her shoulder, his eyes reassuring. "Just stay calm, Betty," he said. "It will all be over soon."

The girl nodded, taking a deep, shuddering breath. Her eyes never left his until she impulsively pressed herself against him, sliding her arms around his shoulders. Dylan was startled to immobility as the girl pressed her mouth to his, sucking hungrily on his lips. A current seemed to pass from her and into his body, powerful and undeniable. Dylan was surprised at the intense level of arousal that washed through him, and found himself responding much more readily than he would have liked.

With effort, he pushed the girl away, just enough that the kiss was broken. For a moment, they recovered their breath, neither of them speaking a word. Dylan felt dazed, his mind momentarily jumbled. Guilt flashed through him for an instant as he realized Corinna had never aroused him so quickly and completely.

"I, uh . . . I'd better check on Mr. Craig."

Betty blinked profusely, licking her lips and trying to quell the shivers of excitement that rippled through her body. Never before had a man filled her with such need, such longing. Never had she ever actually wanted a man as much as she wanted Dylan. She could only nod and let Dylan pass.

With reluctance, Dylan left Betty by the hall to the bedroom and approached the bathroom door. "Mr. Craig," he called out. "Are you all right?"

Sputtering was the response from the other side of the door. "Oh, I'm just dandy," Craig said in a wavering voice. The door jerked open, revealing the effeminate man with a towel held against his chin. The reek of vomit accompanied his words as he spoke. "Is it over now? Did you get the bastard?"

"You'll need to stay inside just a little longer, Mr. Craig," Dylan responded. He took out his pocket watch, glancing to it briefly. "Just another couple of hours."

"This is ridiculous!" spouted Craig. "You're treating me like a prisoner!"

Dylan gritted his teeth in annoyance and held up a pair of steel handcuffs. "No, I'd be treating you like a prisoner if I used these."

Craig gasped and recoiled. "You wouldn't!"

Dylan replaced the cuffs in his back pocket. "Not unless I had to," he said. "Just stay in the bedroom, and no matter what happens, don't answer the door unless you hear my voice. Understood?"

Craig grumbled under his breath, but nevertheless nodded. "When I get back to New York, I'm giving Mr. Hoover a call. He should know how his agents are treating those they claim to protect."

Dylan smirked. "You do that, Mr. Craig."

***

Betty sat forlorn upon one of the mattresses, looking at the array of weapons laid out upon a blanket beside her. The deadly reality of the intent behind those weapons' existence was inexplicable and daunting. They were used to kill, she realized.

This isn't fun, Betty, she told herself.  This isn't a movie. He's not Hoot Gibson, and you're not Helen Foster. This is real. So why in damnation are you here? Because of him?

She looked up as Dylan returned, closing the bedroom door behind him. Her eyes drank him in, and she once again felt that inexplicable sense of arousal, of connection to him, that she had felt that very first day. It was almost like . . . destiny. "I'm scared, Dylan."

He stood by the door, as if reluctant to approach her. He was so stoic, so strong, the idea that he would protect her was one thing that Betty could never doubt. Yet she was aware that she wanted more from him than protection, and that idea frightened her.

"I know. I shouldn't have let you come. I'm putting your life at risk, and I can't have that."

"You said you would protect me."

Dylan set his jaw, making the muscles at his temples bulge. "And I will," he said firmly. He approached and knelt before Betty, taking up one of the pistols. "Do you know how to use this?"

Betty shuddered. "I . . . I used to have a boyfriend," she said sheepishly, reaching for the firearm Dylan offered. "He was, um, older . . . a soldier. He taught me how to shoot."

Dylan nodded. "I want you to hang onto this," he said. "Just for tonight. I hope you won't have to use it."

Her eyes quivered, glistening with a film of tears. "What's gonna happen, Dylan?" she whispered, barely able to push the words out. Her eyes glowed with the obvious need for comfort. Her silent yearning was something Dylan could not ignore.

"Hey," he said soothingly, settling on the mattress beside Betty. He took the pistol from her hands, setting it aside, and pulled her to him. Betty shuddered as she felt his muscular chest against her back, even through the layers of clothing they wore. The arm around her waist seemed to transfer strength. She felt safe, protected. Automatically, she clutched his arm, pulling it tighter about her. She sighed softly as her heavy breasts brushed it. The arousal she had felt before flooded back, now even stronger.

"It's all right to be scared, Betty," Dylan spoke into her ear. "Even I feel it. The trick is not to be unafraid, but to use the fear. Control it."

"Maybe that's easy for you," she said, turning her face to nuzzle his chest. "But right now, the only thing that's helping is . . . is you."

Dylan took a breath, trying to contain the desire that had barged into his mind. The power of his feelings was unlike anything he had known before. It was as if he was being drawn to this young woman. "I . . . I'm here for you, Betty," he whispered, brushing the lobe of her ear with his lips.

Betty gasped, closing her eyes a moment to savor the sexual electricity coursing through her. She pushed against Dylan's body, bit at the fabric of his shirt. A needy moan escaped her lips. "Are you, really?" she managed to ask.

Dylan hesitated only a brief moment, lifting his free hand to cup her chin and turn her toward him. He gazed into her eyes, seeing that they were as heady and full of desire as his own. "Yes," he responded, then lowered his head.

The world melted around them. The kiss was all that mattered. Moist lips met and sucked, tongues tickled and probed. Betty murmured into his mouth, bringing up her hands to caress the stubble of her lover's face. She twisted in his arms, falling back with him until she was atop. Automatically, her legs fell across him, straddling his lap. The growing bulge in his slacks rubbed pleasurably against the single layer of cotton that covered her pussy.

"I want you, Dylan," she whispered between heated kisses. The heat and wetness between her thighs was already palpable. "Make love to me."

Dylan could only respond with a primal growl, belying his own wants. He pawed at her dress, pulling the top down until her breasts were freed, naked and bouncing. Betty sighed deeply at the touch of his rough, warm fingers, they way he pinched the distended nipples. The light spattering of freckles across the tops of her full mounds contrasted erotically with her pale skin, but not as much as the dusky pink of her swollen nipples and broad, thick areolas.

"Oh, Dylan . . . Dylan!" gasped the girl as he lifted his head, swiping his tongue across one of those firm, rosy protrusions. She cradled his head in her hands, urging him to lick, then suck. Betty arched her back, pressing her breast to his mouth. The heat between her thighs grew exponentially. She ground her pussy against his cock, wanting the layers of fabric between them gone.

Words would not have done justice to the moment, Dylan realized, nor would he have known what to say. There was nothing to say, after all. The moment was about passion.

He rolled the girl onto her back, laying between her spread thighs as he suckled the thick nipples of her proffered breasts. He sucked and pulled, nipped with his teeth. The soft, pillowy feel of her tits was angelic, pure. He kissed all around her nipples, sucked gently at the underside of the girl's mounds before kissing his way down her body.

The dress Betty wore seemed to melt away, fabric loosening and pushed aside. Her belly was soft, yet youthfully toned. She stiffened, then relaxed repeatedly at the touch of his lips and tongue. The southward movement of Dylan's mouth made her squirm, especially when her skirt was pushed up and he kissed around the edges of her panties.

"Dylan . . . Dylan, don't," she moaned, her words only partially sincere. "That's dirty."

He smiled, pushing her thighs wide apart. The aroma of her sex filled his senses. It was sweet and musky . . . ripe. He passed his tongue over the bulging lips covered by her underwear. "I like dirty," he responded, then curled his fingers beneath the edge of the garment, pulling them aside. For a moment, he gazed upon the soft brown hair that covered her pussy like a fine coat. Her vulva were thick, framing soft pink labia that draped down from a fleshy clitoral hood.




TMA: Agent Moon Ch. 03



"Oh, God, Dylan!" the girl gasped, raising her hips. "You . . . you don't have to—Ah!"

Dylan moaned as he tasted her sweet fluid, pressing his mouth to Betty's pussy and parting her lips with his tongue. She was incredibly wet, her labia slick with arousal. The taste was unlike anything Dylan had ever sampled before. It was intoxicating . . . divine.

Betty planted her feet on the mattress and pushed her pelvis out, loving the feel of Dylan's lips, tongue, his rough stubble against the inside of her thighs, the movement of his nose through the hair on her pussy mound. The wet sucking and smacking sounds he made only heightened her pleasure. Rolling her hips greedily, Betty cupped her full breasts in her hands, pinching and pulling on her nipples. After mere moments, she felt she was already close to climax.

Dylan pushed into the girl with his tongue, feeling the contractions of her inner muscles, tasting the thick cream as it oozed from deep within. He braced his hands upon her belly, keeping her in place as he serviced her. Betty gasped and moaned, pulling at his head as if wanting more of him within. Dylan did not let up for a moment, especially once his questing tongue lavished her clitoris. He sucked on it tenderly at first, then with more urgency. Betty all but screamed as she came.

The young woman bucked and thrashed, tossing her head back and forth, digging her fingers into Dylan's scalp to keep his mouth firmly affixed to her pussy. She had never experienced a real orgasm before; the pleasure was unimaginable . . . heavenly.

One orgasm blended into another, then another. Dylan's tongue was tireless within her sex, digging deep to taste her orgasmic fluid again and again. It seemed an hour and a day before he finally moved up over her, offering his slick lips. Betty kissed him hungrily, uncaring that she was tasting herself upon his tongue. The act only seemed to bring her closer to him.

"My turn," she said at last, her voice husky and determined. Dylan let himself be pushed onto his back, stared up at Betty as she straddled him. They sucked hungrily on one another's lips; the passion of the moment had overtaken them, demanding satisfaction. Consumed by animal passion, Betty ripped open his shirt, casting buttons in all directions, and buried her face in his chest. Amid purrs, moans, growls and sighs, she kissed and nipped at his skin, making her way downward.

Dylan groaned, lifting his hips once the girl had his belt undone and the button of his slacks freed. Betty hissed with feral desire upon the sight of the dark hair around the root of his cock, then cooed once the object of her attention was released. She grinned, sighing in appreciation at the length and girth of the cock she now held, pressed her lips against the thick, purplish head. The taste of his precum was sweet, and she lapped it away with loving swipes of her tongue.

She engulfed him once, sucking hard, drawing out the sweet manly flavor from the skin of his cock, then released him. Her eyes blazed, admiring the magnificent phallus thrusting up at her. "I wanna taste you," she whispered, then slid her mouth back down, bathing his cock in warmth and wetness. She breathed heavily through her nose, sucking up and down, squeezing the base of Dylan's cock with her hand.

Oh, God, this is incredible, thought Dylan, his body tensing. He could feel every movement of Betty's tongue, the slick firmness of the roof of her mouth, the insistent stroking and squeezing of her hands. Of all the women he had known, not one had elicited such pleasure as this incredible young woman.

"Betty!" he grunted after only a few minutes. His body tingled, his toes curled, his thighs tensed to rock-hard firmness.

"Mmm! Mmm!" She sucked harder, pulling on his cock with her mouth, her lips dripping with saliva. One hand stroked his shaft firmly, the other gently squeezed and massaged his balls. Her muffled murmurs were needy, almost desperate. Dylan could not help but believe that the angel servicing him wanted to devour him to the fullest.

He grunted and shook, pushing his hips off the mattress as he came. Betty stayed with him, keeping her mouth locked around the head of his swollen cock, sucking out the river of warm, tangy, salty fluid that gushed into her mouth. She sighed at the flavor, the realization that she was sucking out the most precious gift a man could give. She held the fluid in her mouth, sucking gently as the spasms in the cock between her lips slowly subsided.

Dylan shook with aftershocks as he relaxed, slowly, almost painfully. Betty nursed his spent penis, bathing it in the warmth of her semen-filled mouth. She hugged his hips, settled her head to his thigh. A single trickle of fluid escaped the corner of her mouth, running along her cheek to Dylan's thigh. The rest flowed down her throat as she swallowed.

Dylan panted, staring at the ceiling. He petted Betty's head, gently urged her to move up atop him. She did so with a dreamy smile upon her face, her lush, full lips glistening. A smear of cum made her right cheek shine. Dylan smiled back, pulling her head down for a kiss. But she resisted.

"Um, wait," she said, then smiled sheepishly, wiping her mouth. "I should, uh—"

"No, you shouldn't," Dylan said, pressing his lips to hers. The lingering taste of his orgasm upon her lips and tongue inspired and refueled him. Betty yielded easily once more, allowing herself to be rolled onto her back. Her fingers clawed at Dylan's body as he positioned himself between her thighs. Although not entirely hard, Dylan's cock pushed against the furry lips of her pussy. The seeping wetness allowed for entry.

Betty gasped, holding her legs open wide as Dylan pushed within her. Her rouged face glowed with passion. Her hands caressed the face of the man atop her, the only man she ever felt truly close with.

"Dylan . . . oh, Dylan . . . ."

His cock swelled, growing inside the caressing depths of her snug tunnel. Dylan kissed the girl's lips, then her neck and the tops of her breasts. He felt his cock thickening within her, began moving back and forth. Never had he recovered so quickly. Never had he wanted a woman as much as he wanted Betty.

He straightened, holding her legs apart with his hands, watching the thick, hairy lips of Betty's sex bulge around the girth of his cock. Betty's clit glowed like a beacon, extending out from the shroud that protected it. Dylan let go of her left leg and massaged the slick button with his thumb. Betty trembled, gasping within that state that bordered between pain and pleasure. And then she exploded.

"Oh, God! Oh, GOD!"

Her pussy squeezed his cock tightly, spasming in orgasm. Juices squelched from within her, coating Dylan's thrusting cock like milk. Betty heaved and convulsed, slapping her hands to the mattress and shoving her pelvis up, burying Dylan's cock to the hilt. The sensations were all too much, and Dylan joined her, feeling his cock erupting within the womb of his young lover. Every contraction, every spurt of seed, was felt by both.

Exhausted, Dylan all but fell upon the girl, only his shaking arms keeping his weight from crushing her. He buried his face in her neck, panting for breath. Betty held him tight, curling arms and legs around him. She smiled sublimely, kissing his shoulder. She never wanted to let him go.

***

Dylan awoke with a start, his eyes flashing open as he lay upon the dirty mattress. Betty remained curled against him, head and arm upon his chest, a leg draped over his thighs. Gently, so as not to wake her, he slipped from beneath her body. His slacks were bunched up around his legs; he pulled them up, affixed the zipper and fastened the button. He did not bother with his shirt, which had been discarded to the floor. Instead, he reached for one of the pistols. A quick inspection told him the .45 was fully loaded.





He stepped to the door, feeling a strong, chilly draft. Pulling the door open, Dylan stepped out. The moon seemed brighter, casting the landscape in a pure, pale glow. Not twenty feet from the front door stood Foster Reece, alone.

Dylan glanced around quickly, then smiled crookedly, tapping his pistol against his leg. "Just you?"

Reece nodded grimly. "Just me," he said. His eyes were unwavering as they held Dylan's. "Seven minutes. Seven minutes, and I complete my mission. The demands of time are . . . pretty stringent, you know. The moment has to be just right."

Dylan nodded. "So I'm learning," he said. His eyes hardened. "You know I won't let you through that door."

Reece allowed himself to soften a bit as he smiled. Like Dylan, he, too, held a pistol at his side. "You know what the universal law of time travel is, Dylan?"

The TMA agent narrowed his eyes. "I'd love to hear your take on it."

Reece chuckled, shaking his head. "Everything happens for a reason," he said. "That's the universal law. It's not maintaining history, it's not righting wrongs. You and I, we are able to travel through time for a reason."

"So what's the reason?" asked Dylan, humoring the man.

A slow, knowing smile stretched Foster Reece's lips. "To set certain things in motion," he said. "We are here to insure that particular events happen. Events that do not seem to have much impact upon the world. At least . . . according to our limited perceptions."

Dylan sighed, annoyed by the vague pompousness of Reece's words. "You know what gets me?" he asked.

"Oh, pray tell," chastised the Rectifier agent.

"You guys go back in time, change history," Dylan said. "Yet, the moment you do, the TMA figures it out and sends someone to stop you. After ten years, you'd think the Rectifiers would realize that there's nothing you can do that we won't see."

Reece's smile remained. "Indeed. We should just give up. You've thwarted us at every turn, after all. What's the point?"

Dylan narrowed his eyes. "What are you after?"

Reece laughed shallowly. "At the moment, I'm just like you. I have a mission to accomplish."

"Over my dead body," growled Dylan. He snapped up his pistol, just as Reece did the same. The still air echoed with the sound of two hammers being cocked back. Both men stared down the other over barrels of steel.

"If it comes to that," Reece said.

"But it won't, will it? We can't kill each other, after all. Not without knowing if this is our last meeting. And it can't be the last for me; we've already established that. So the question comes down to whether it's the last for you."

Reece ground his teeth, his eyes flickering back and forth from the pistol Dylan held to the man's face. "If you kill me now, then everything you know disappears," he said. He lowered his weapon, held his arms wide. "Go on, take the chance. Take the life of every living thing in the universe in your hands. Take the opportunity to pretend you are God."

Dylan was silent, feeling the weight of the tiny lever against his finger. A quick squeeze, a blink in the eye of time, and it would be over. The mission would be saved, Craig and Betty would be safe. Yet . . . yet . . . .

Slowly, Dylan lowered his pistol, straightened his back. He tossed the weapon to the ground. "I don't need to kill you to stop you," he said. "There's one way into that house. And that's through me."

Reece's smiled broadened into a grin. He, too, threw his weapon away, then unbuttoned his jacket before sliding the garment from his shoulders. "Mano a mano, eh? It's been a while."

Dylan relaxed into a defensive stance, hands raised and knees slightly bent. "So, did I kick your ass last time?" he asked with a cocky grin.

Reece cracked his neck as he approached slowly. "Actually, we almost killed each other," he said, raising his hands in readiness. He stopped once the two men were only a few paces apart, and winked. "Hell of a fight."

"I'm looking forward to it," Dylan said, then lashed out quickly, the open palm of his right hand intended for Reece's jaw. It was a swift move that often stunned an opponent, giving Dylan an early advantage . . . and often, a decisive one.

But Reece was quick, unnaturally so. His left hand shot out, slapping at Dylan's wrist, and the man pivoted, spinning about and slamming his elbow into the TMA agent's chest. Dylan grunted, stumbling backward. He had never seen a man move so fast.

He barely managed to duck beneath a secondary backhand of the same arm that had hit him, and pummeled his fist into Reece's midsection. The man stiffened slightly, but was not as affected by the blow as Dylan had hoped. Indeed, Reece appeared relatively unfazed, clapping both his hands over Dylan's ears. Dylan cried out in pain, backing away quickly. He blinked, looking upon his laughing opponent.

"Come on, Dylan, you move like a snail. You're better than that," Reece taunted.

"Maybe I'm just warming up," Dylan shot back, shaking his head briefly. He felt a trickle of warm fluid leaking from his right ear. The blood muffled his hearing.

Reece grinned in confidence. "Or maybe you haven't figured a few things out," he said, and rushed forward. His hands struck with speed and power Dylan had never before experienced. Grunting and wincing with each impact to his torso and face, Dylan found himself staggering back. Then came a powerful kick to his abdomen that sent him flying back, into and through the wooden support of the tiny front deck. The thick beam cracked in half, jagged wood digging through the material of Dylan's shirt and into his skin. The rickety cover fell around him.

For a moment, Reece shook his head, grinning ruefully. He dusted his hands as he kicked away the trellis-type cover over Dylan's body. The TMA agent lay panting on the ground, blood oozing from his mouth. "It's really too bad I can't kill you, Dylan," Reece said. "Because right now, it would be ridiculously easy."

Dylan sputtered, trying to sit up. He grimaced as Reece reached down and grabbed a handful of thick black hair, hauling Dylan to his feet. The Rectifier agent sneered in triumph. "Guess I'll just have to be happy with beating your ass into the ground," he hissed viciously. "And then having some fun with that little whore you brought."

Betty? Don't you fucking dare . . . . Dylan's eyes flashed open, suddenly lucid and fierce. "I don't think so," he growled, then hammered his palm into Reece's chest, mustering all the force he could into that single blow. The power behind it seemed supernatural as Reece was lifted bodily into the air, flying back several feet.

The Rectifier lay stunned a moment, but not half as astonished as his foe. Dylan looked to his hands, wondering where the sudden strength had come from. Then, as a moment of clarity intruded upon his mind, he smiled and looked to Reece. He could feel the sudden flood of power in his limbs, decided it was best not to wonder from whence it came. "Time to play."

Reece scrambled to his feet, wiped his mouth of the spittle that had formed on his lips. His earlier bravado seemed compromised, but not entirely gone. "Let's."

The two men charged one another, emitting feral cries of rage and desperation. While before, Reece seemed to be the faster and stronger of the two, suddenly, the odds were equal. Dylan moved with speed and efficiency he had never before enjoyed, countering Reece's attacks and delivering his own. Strikes flashed with blinding speed, many only coming close to striking before being batted away. Still, the occasional fist landed upon jaw or cheek, chest or abdomen, and both men, after a few minutes, were beginning to show the effects of the combat.

"Just another minute or so, Reece," taunted Dylan as they circled one another. He licked blood from the corner of his mouth. "Like I said, there's only one way through that door."

Reece glared, then snickered. "Oh, how I wish I could see your face when you learn the truth," he said, then spun about swiftly, bringing up his foot. The kick slammed squarely into Dylan's chest, making him pitch back. But his reflexes were high; he absorbed most of the blow by rolling backward, heels over head, and snatched up a pair of narrow wooden boards as he came up on a single bent knee.

Reece was already charging again, and as the man surged forward, Dylan launched himself out, swinging with both boards as if they were escrima sticks. He battered, whirled, spun and struck again, feeling the grim satisfaction each time a strike found its mark. Reece cried out and fell back, welts and cuts opened upon his arms and chest and left cheek. He fell into a crouch, wavering on weakened legs, and touched his face. Eyes glanced to bloodied fingers when he pulled them away.

Dylan whirled the impromptu weapons in his hands, standing over his opponent. "Like I said, you're not getting through me," he said.

Reece heaved for breath, one of his hands creeping back along his calf. "And, like I said, I have a mission to accomplish."

Dylan saw the movement, heard the snap of the leather loop that kept the tiny firearm secured to Reece's ankle holster. Just as the man shot his hand out and squeezed the trigger, Dylan ducked and spun. The sharp report echoed in his ears, and he felt more than heard a whizzing past his head as the bullet barely missed.

Or rather, as it missed him.

He froze, staring at Betty as the young woman stood in the doorway, pistol held in her hands. Smoke trailed up from the barrel – she must have fired at the same time as Reece, Dylan realized – and shock was evident on her face.

Then he saw the dark stain, growing in the fabric beneath her bodice. His eyes shot to her face. "Betty."

She looked to him slowly, her face draining. "D-Dylan . . . ." she began, then faltered and fell to her knees, the pistol dropping to the ground.

Rage seized him in that instant, and Dylan whirled around, spying Foster Reece laying on his back, pressing a hand to his chest. Blood bubbled in the man's mouth as he struggled to breathe. But Dylan was not about to give the man any more chances at life. With a feral snarl, Dylan squatted over Reece's chest, pinning the gun-wielding hand to the ground with his foot. His eyes blazed into the Rectifier's own.

"You know, I think I will take the fate of the universe in my hands," Dylan growled, reaching for Reece's head. A quick, vicious tug, resulting in the audible snap of bone and tendon, and it was over. The last moment of Foster Reece's life was filled with the vengeful face of his killer.

Leaving the corpse on the ground, Dylan rushed to Betty's side. The girl sat upon her haunches, blinking and licking dry lips, glassy eyes fixed upon a point on the ground. Dylan snapped his fingers before her face. "Betty. Betty!"

She slowly looked to him. "I-It hurts . . . ."

He sighed, gritting his teeth. "Hold your breath a moment, honey," he said, then scooped her into his arms. The girl winced, clutching Dylan tightly as he carried her to the car. She wept into his chest. It took a little work to get the door open while holding her, but Dylan managed, and set her body in the passenger seat. Working quickly, and with apologies, he managed to open her blood-soaked shirt. The bullet had penetrated beneath her right breast. Feeling behind Betty's back, he found no exit wound.

Ripping the girl's shirt into ribbons, he wadded up a handful of fabric and pressed it to the wound. "Hold it here," he told her. "Keep pressure on it."

Mutely, Betty nodded. Tears dripped down her cheeks. "Don't leave me," she pleaded.

Dylan swallowed hard. "I'm just going to get Mr. Craig," he said. "I'm still responsible for him."

She forced a smile, breathing out through clenched teeth. Dylan was glad he saw no blood on her lips; at the least, it seemed, the bullet had missed her lung. Weakly, Betty lifted her hand and touched his face. "I love you," she whispered faintly.




TMA: Agent Moon Ch. 03



A pang shot through him, though Dylan did not show it. He gripped her hand, then pressed it to the wound. "Keep the pressure, and breathe shallow," he said. "I'll be right back."

Betty nodded wordlessly. She reached a bloody hand that touched his chest.

After a moment's hesitation, Dylan pushed away from the car and ran back into the house. He began calling out as soon as his feet fell upon the creaking wooden boards. "Craig! Craig, come on! We have to go! Now!"

He threw open the door to the bedroom, expecting to see the man cowering or fidgeting. Instead, all he saw was a slender form swallowed up in the bed covers.

"Craig, damn it!" shouted Dylan angrily, throwing back the blankets. "I'm not in the mood for your . . . your . . . ." He trailed off, staring at the body upon the bed.

Michael Craig's skin was pale, exceedingly so. His eyes were open, glazed, faded. Flecks of foam decorated the corners of his mouth, and his tongue, purplish and bloated, stuck out. Dylan's heart sank. He had seen many corpses in his life, but there were times when the starkness of death touched even he. "Jesus Christ," he muttered, then stepped around the bed and touched the man's neck. Faintly warm, yet clammy skin met his fingers. No blood pumped through the carotid.

This isn't right, thought Dylan. I did what I was supposed to do. Reece couldn't have gotten to Craig . . . could he?

Betty . . . .

His fears for the success of the mission were tossed away. All that mattered to Dylan was getting the young woman he promised to protect to safety. Without a look back, Dylan turned on his heel and darted out to the waiting car.

***

The night ward of St. Joseph's Hospital in Elmira, not far from the Van Deusen Resort, was startled by the entrance of a man carrying a bleeding young woman in his arms. Reactionary shock was quickly transmuted into action as they produced a rickety gurney to carry the woman into emergency surgery. Dylan followed, answering questions as quickly as they were launched upon him.

"Her name is Betty Vernon," he said. "She was helping me. I work with the Bureau of Investigation. Do everything you can to save her; she's a state's witness."

Doctors and nurses alike, either impressed, cowed, or intimidated by Dylan's words and presence, worked swiftly to carry out his wishes.

Dylan watched as Betty was wheeled through broad double doors, his face pale and worried beneath the stark light of the corridor. He hated the feeling that Betty's life was in hands other than his own, but he was, at best, a field medic, not a surgeon. 

The doors flapped heavily in the wake, clacking with the mortal precision of a clock. Dylan could do nothing but wait.

***

"Mr . . . um, Agent?"

Dylan looked up as he sat in the waiting area, clenching his hands together. The young surgeon before him wore a long white apron stained with blood. The mask that had once been around his face now hovered under his jaw.

"Tell me she's alive, or tell me nothing at all," Dylan said grimly.

The surgeon smiled thinly. "She's alive. The bullet was lodged between her ribs. There really wasn't that much damage. In a way, it's nothing short of a miracle."

Dylan let out a relieved laugh, and touched his knuckles to his forehead. "I'd like to see her as soon as possible."

The surgeon nodded. "She's quite incapacitated by morphine at the moment, but . . . we'll let you know when she awakes."

Dylan sat back, stretching his spine. Despite the failure of Craig's inexplicable passing, and whatever problems Reece's death may cause, he felt a sense of accomplishment that, at the least, Betty had been saved. Still, the guilt he felt that Betty had been hurt pained him. "If you don't mind, I need to stay with her once she leaves surgery."

***

It was early the following morning when Betty awoke. Dylan sat in an uncomfortable chair beside her bed, his fingers interlaced with hers. Despite his physical discomfort, Dylan had fallen asleep, head lolling on his chest.

The young woman opened her eyes slowly, feeling the grogginess of morphine that still lingered in her body. Looking about slowly, her clouded mind was just able to make sense of where she was, and the presence of Dylan, her protector, her guardian, made her smile. Mustering what little strength she had, Betty squeezed his hand . . . then squeezed again.

He shifted, came awake with a start. His face showed exhaustion, yet his eyes were instantly alert. "Betty?"

Her lips stretched in a tired smile. "Thank you."

He returned the smile, leaning forward. Fingers graced faces. Dylan relished the feel of her soft young cheeks even as she scratched at his stubble-covered ones. "Nothing else matters except that you're safe," he said.

Betty's eyes fluttered. The drugs in her system, combined with exhaustion and blood loss, brought upon a feeling of displaced euphoria. She barely managed to slip the necklace over her head, the tiny gold cross catching the light. "I want you to have this, Dylan" she said drunkenly, then fell back in her bed, sighing heavily. Within moments, she was asleep once more.

The metal of the cross was warm in his hand. The chain draped over his fingers as he pressed the symbol to his lips. I don't deserve this, he thought, and tucked the cross into his pocket.

He felt the buzzing of the cigarette case in his jacket, against his chest. He thought about answering it, knowing it was the TMA, but did not. He was worried as to what his bungled mission had done to the timestream. However, once the case buzzed for the third time, he decided to answer. Planting a soft kiss on his sleeping lover's dry lips, he stepped from Betty's room, took a few turns until he stood within a grimy, little-used corridor. The case flipped open with a touch.

"Moon."

"Time to come home, Agent."

The accented voice, the curt words . . . Dylan was surprised to hear the Director's voice. "What's happened?" he asked.

"Just come home, Dylan. We'll talk about it once you return."

He gritted his teeth. "I'd like to stay here a little longer—"

"No." The flat reply was firm and uncompromising. "Head down the hall to a janitor's closet. You can activate the recall from there."

Dylan breathed out, closing his eyes, thinking of Betty in her room, all alone and recovering. But he forced himself to remember where his obligations and duty really lay. "All right," he said. He snapped the case closed, looked back along the corridor.

I'm sorry, Betty.

***

"Agent Moon? Are you all right?"

Dylan nodded, fending off the helping hands that tried to lift him to his feet. His senses took in the sterile aroma of the Tap Chamber; he glanced around, seeing a couple of familiar faces in technician uniforms. Heavy eyes found Dr. Naveen standing on the other side of the observation window in the Command room. Her features seemed dark, but also sympathetic. She nodded once. Dylan returned the gesture with a thumb's-up gesture. 

The techs helped him to his feet, and he stumbled from the room with their help. Though he felt a little weak, at least there was no nausea this time; Dylan figured he was beginning to get accustomed to time travel.

"I need to speak to the Director," he managed to say as he was escorted by a young French lieutenant.

"As soon as you've recovered," the man answered in a thick accent.

Dylan coughed once, cleared his throat. He cracked his neck and straightened his back. "I'm recovered."

***

Two hours later, Dylan stood before the broad window overlooking the Tap Chamber, hands clasped behind his back. A quick shower and fresh change of clothes had done little to relax him. There was a lingering sense of guilt that he had returned from the past, alive and whole, while Betty Vernon was left to fend for herself. Not to mention that Corinna's corpse remained attached to a 'Jane Doe' tag in 1933. That is, if her body had ever been recovered at all . . . .

"Agent Moon."

Dylan turned at the sound of Colonel Naveen's voice. He nodded shortly, then took a seat after the Indian woman sunk into her chair. She regarded him a moment, her expression blank and unreadable. "Rough trip?"


Dylan let out a sharp, sarcastic laugh. "Yeah, you could say that."

Naveen breathed in, folded her fingers atop the table. "You have never worked for an agency like the TMA before, Dylan," she said. "Much of what we do is . . . highly eccentric."

He chewed his lip. "That's one way to put it," he said. He glanced around. "Glad to see everything looks normal. I guess it was Foster Reece's time to die, after all."

Naveen nodded carefully. "It seems that way," she admitted.

Dylan ground his teeth. "Craig's still dead, though," he said. "I took a peek at the archives. Nothing seems to have changed. Kind of funny, isn't it?"

Naveen stared back. "Michael Craig died on September 17th, 1933, presumably of complications due to a congenital heart defect. He was supposed to die, agent. But then, I have the feeling you know that now."

Dylan seethed a moment, then calmed himself. "I don't like being used," he said, giving the Director a challenging look. "So, how'd you do it? How'd you insure Craig died when he was supposed to? And why the fuck did you have to send me and Corinna back in the first place?"

Naveen did not seem the least bit perturbed by Dylan's outburst. "The chemical you gave Michael Craig," she said. "Was a poison, as well as a tracker. Time-released, to insure he died at the exact moment he had in the true timeline. We couldn't risk the possibility that any actions you took would extend his life."

Dylan narrowed his eyes. "So . . . I was just an assassin? The whole Budweiser angle was a sham? Why the hell send me back in time, if he was going to die anyway? And why send Corinna?"

Calmly, Colonel Naveen opened the file before her and took out a wrinkled, aged sheaf of paper. She glanced over it a moment, then set it down on the table. She fixed Dylan with a level-eyed gaze. "In 1934, toward the end of summer, a young woman gave birth in a New York City hospital," she said. "By all accounts, the birthing was quick, the child and mother both healthy. The child was a boy, and she named him Dylan. However, a few months later, the mother was killed on Valentine's Day by a jealous ex-boyfriend, and her son was placed in the care of the Our Lady Of Eternal Hope orphanage. He eventually gained the last name of Moon, borrowing from one of the few families that temporarily adopted him."

Dylan stared at the Director, trying to make sense of what she was saying. His lips moved for many long moments as he tried to speak. Finally, the words came. "I . . . wait a sec. That's not possible."

Naveen nodded again, as curtly as before. "It is, Dylan. We've verified it." She pushed the sheet of paper toward him. "That's your birth certificate. The day matches your birthday of August 5th, and I'm willing to bet we could prove that the little foot print matches yours as well. But we don't need to do any of that. The blood on your shirt confirmed what we already knew."

Dylan swallowed thickly, feeling a weight descend upon him. "You're saying that . . . I'm my own father?"

"Yes."

Dylan breathed out, trying to make sense of the possibility. He closed his eyes, remembering Betty, his lover . . . his mother. Jesus Christ . . . .

"Dylan?"

The voice startled him. He blinked his eyes open, looking to the doorway of the room. For a moment, he was not sure if what he saw was reality or a ghost.

"Corinna?"

She smiled, standing there in tight-fitting jeans and her brown leather jacket over a simple white blouse. There was not a scratch upon her. "Hi, baby."

Dylan frowned, as much stupefied as he was glad. "But—"

"I know," she interrupted, stepping into the room. "Don't be mad, Dylan, please? We had to do it."

Dylan frowned more deeply. "Had to do what?" he asked, his voice growing darker. He looked to the Director. "You faked her death? Why?"

"Because you wouldn't have gone to bed with Betty Vernon if you thought Corinna was still alive," Naveen said casually. "And it was necessary that you did so."

Dylan shook his head in disbelief. "So this whole mission wasn't about protecting anyone," he said. "It was about me making sure that I became my own fucking father!" He slammed his fist upon the table, glaring at both the Director and Corinna.

Naveen's expression was neither forgiving nor apologetic. "Don't think for a moment that being an agent with the TMA is anything like what you have experienced before, Dylan. There are things at work that not even I, nor Turgenyev, nor Jasper understand. But they are things that are vital and necessary, and the sooner you understand that, the sooner you become of value to us."

Dylan shot up from the table abruptly, his eyes hard. "Maybe I don't want to be 'of value' to you."

Naveen's gaze was cold. She cocked her head. "There's the door."

Dylan ground his teeth, wondering how a woman could be so heartless. Then he looked to Corinna's worried face. Yet, even she said nothing. "Fine," he said, and stepped from the room.

"Dylan, wait—" began Corinna.

"Let him go," ordered Naveen. She breathed in, glancing to her agent. "Sometimes, people have to figure things out on their own."

***

He was surprised that all the decorations, clothes, and personal effects in his little room fit into a single large Army duffel. By the time he was done packing, his quarters looked sterile and bland. His heart felt much the same way. Cold. Emotionless.

"I'm sorry."

Dylan stiffened slightly at the sound of his former lover's voice. "You could have told me," he said.

He heard her breathe in. He did not face her. "I wanted to tell you," she said, her words strained. "I kept thinking . . . maybe you wouldn't like doing it, but if you knew the reasons, you'd still go through—"

"I thought you were dead," he interjected, seething silently. "I watched you go over the edge. How did you get out of the car?."

"One piece of equipment we didn't give you was an IR. Instant Recall. There's always a chance of failure, but I was willing to take it." Corinna stepped closer, reaching out a hand to touch his arm. "That Walker in the truck gave me a coincidental advantage I took," she explained. "Believe me, Dylan, I didn't want to do it that way, but orders are orders. They figured, if you thought I was dead, it would be easier to . . . be with her."

He jerked his shoulder away. "Don't touch me."

Reluctantly, Corinna lowered her arm. "Look, I understand that you're pretty angry right now—"

"You're God damned right about that."

"—but we did what we thought was right, and it all worked out. So, maybe you're pissed off, maybe you feel like you've been used. Welcome to the fucking club!"

"It's not that easy!" he shouted, turning back. "Don't tell me you understand! That doesn't make anything better!"

Corinna folded her arms defensively. "And what does? Leaving?"

Dylan said nothing, glancing to the stuffed duffel on the bed. He took a step, snatching it up, and for a moment, stared into Corinna's quivering green eyes. "Sometimes, it's better to just walk away," he growled, then shrugged past her to the door.

Corinna closed her eyes, resisting the urge to turn about, to say something. It pained her to think that Dylan could leave so easily, without so much as a farewell. The sound of his hurried steps down the hall hurt more than anything Dylan could have said.

***

The taxi slowed to a stop before a weathered iron gate. Dylan hesitated a moment, the money in his hand, contemplating getting out or telling the driver to go back. He stared out the window, through the gate, looking upon the crowded stones set in the ground.

"This where you want to go, yes?"

Dylan breathed in, then nodded. "Can you wait for me?" he asked the driver.

The Persian man nodded. "Certainly, sir I can wait," he responded in the lilt typical for his people.

Begrudgingly, Dylan slipped from the car, closing the door carefully. He was aware of how hesitant his movements were, yet still he approached the gate. Half of it lay open, allowing him to step through.

The cemetery was old, the headstones crowded together. Finding the plot numbers was not easy, and it took a few minutes to figure out how the place was laid out. Referring to the slip of paper in his hand, however, he eventually found the headstone he sought.

More than seven decades of rain and wind had not been kind to the simple edifice that marked the final resting place of the grave's occupant. Cracks had grown upon the stone, and the simple raised lettering had become somewhat eroded. The name, however, was easy to read.

Bethany Jane Vernon, Dylan read, feeling more reverence at the moment than he ever had before when facing a grave. Born June 9th, 1913 . . . died February 14th, 1935. He knelt, taking out the single white rose from under his jacket. The ground was patchy, wet; it had rained recently in this part of New York.

"Hi, Betty," he said, setting the rose upon the grave. He shook his head. "I had a hundred things to say, but I can't remember any of them now. I guess, when I think about it, I just wish I had known you better. I . . ." he hesitated, sniffling slightly. "I wish I'd . . . God, crazy as this sounds, I wish I'd known you while I was growing up."

He laughed suddenly, settling onto his rump. "Now if that isn't just the strangest thought. Growing up as your son, only to find out later I'm my own father. Freudians would have a field day, I'm sure."

He fell silent for a long moment, studying the headstone, passing his fingers through sparse, damp grass. "I'm glad we had the time we had, Betty," he said at last. He shook his head with a self-admonishing laugh. "Damn, that didn't sound right. Of course I'm glad we were together. I wouldn't be here, after all, right? I mean, we were supposed to be together, otherwise . . . ." He trailed off, brow furrowing in thought. 

Otherwise, everything would have fallen apart.

In a moment of stark clarity, the simple reality became clear. Dylan scrambled to his feet, wavering over the grave of Betty Vernon. The moment of celerity left him momentarily dazed. At last, he smiled, a slow, knowing expression that bespoke realization and acceptance. "Thanks . . . Mom," he said, then turned and headed back toward the gate.

***

He stopped the rental in the spacious lot before the 'Amalgamated Products' building just outside Discovery, Nebraska. The harsh light behind the windows and large glass double doors softened as it reached out toward him. He clenched the keys in his hand, then started toward the doors. He could already feel the assault to his ego that was to come.

Nevertheless, he shoved open booth doors and strode in with all the righteousness and arrogant confidence of a conquering son returning home. He only paused when ports opened in the walls and ceiling, robotic arms ending in thick, wide barrels jutting out toward him.

"STATE YOUR BUSINESS," came a deeply modulated, threatening voice.

Dylan was not perturbed. "Agent Dylan Moon," he said, holding his hands open at his sides. "I need to speak with the Director."

"AGENT MOON IS NO LONGER REGISTERED ON THE DIRECTORY."

Dylan's lips curled in a smile. "I'd like to speak to Col. Naveen," he insisted.

***

Radha Naveen paced back and forth in the Command room, fidgeting with her hands. The calm, stoic image Dylan Moon presented – standing with his arms clasped lightly behind his back – was quietly intimidating, and that made her nervous. Radha was a woman used to being in control, used to being in charge. She had not climbed the ranks of the Mossad through complacency. Intimidation was supposed to be a thing she exuded, not something she felt.




TMA: Agent Moon Ch. 03



"This isn't a social club," she said bitterly, not looking to Dylan. "You don't just decide to leave, then come back."

"I know that," he responded. His features were firm, confident, almost cocky. "I know you don't need me. But . . . you need me."

Naveen stopped pacing and faced Dylan. "Are you that sure of yourself?"

Dylan met her eyes. "I'm sure that I will succeed where other agents might not. History has already told us that."

The Director smirked, if only faintly. She cocked her head back, regarding Dylan with as much haughtiness as he himself evidenced. "Knowing the future – or the past – is not the same as being efficient at correcting it."

Dylan leveled his gaze. "True," he agreed. "But we should both know that I have an advantage. According to the TMA archives, I've already succeeded. Do you really want to chance fate by doling out my missions to someone else?"

Naveen narrowed her eyes. "If it means precluding the actions of a loaded gun, then yes," she said. She mocked his confident look. "You forget that, since we not only know that you succeeded, but also how, we can give other agents more exacting information."

Dylan was unwavering. "But they still won't be me," he said. "I killed Foster Reece, but we will meet again. If you change that, then who knows what else will change? It could ruin everything."

"Well, look who's become an expert on time travel," she remarked snidely.

Dylan sighed, tired of the pompous game. "I'm back," he said. "Yes, or no?"

The Director studied him for a log moment, then sunk into her chair at the head of the table. "Walk away again, and you walk away for good," she said bluntly. Her eyes were shadowy. "I don't run a 'come as you will' agency."

Dylan nodded. "Guess I'll get myself moved back in," he said.

Naveen nodded slightly. "I guess you will."

***

The simple decorations were back on the small table by the bed. A lithograph featuring the ruins of Macchu Picchu and a simple picture of flowers painted in objectivist style lent a sense of 'hominess.' Dylan sat upon the bed and lit a cigarette. He touched Betty's cross as it hung around his neck. It seemed warm and comforting. The only gift of his lover . . . his mother.

"Feels weird, I bet."

Dylan looked up, letting smoke trail from his lips as he regarded Corinna in the doorway. "Believe it or not, it makes sense," he said. "For the last few decades, I've wondered why I was so different, why I wasn't aging. Maybe this, at least, explains part of it."

Corinna remained where she was, although her body language indicated she really wanted to be closer to Dylan. "I heard the Director wants you to take some tests with Ziske. Something about . . . hyperkinetics."

Dylan nodded. "Something strange happened when I fought Foster Reece," he said. "At first, he was faster and stronger, and then . . . I don't know. All of a sudden, it was as if we were matched. And I can feel it now. I am quicker, and stronger."

"I'm sure that'll come in handy," Corinna said with a clipped, nervous laugh.

Dylan lowered his cigarette, taking a moment to study Corinna's face. He could see the worry there, the apprehension, the hope. "I'm not mad at you," he said.

"Not anymore, you mean."

He sighed, looked for the ashtray. "I think it's fair to say we've both been through the emotional ringer."

"Yeah," Corinna agreed, her voice soft and faint. She took a deep breath. "Do you . . . do you think . . . I mean, could we—"

"I don't know, Cori," Dylan said, studying her eyes. "I have a lot of things to think about, all right?"

The reluctant acceptance was telling upon Corinna's face. Still, she nodded. "I understand," she said, and started to push away from the doorway. She looked back with a small smile. "I'm glad you came back."

He returned the smile. "I am, too."

-finis-

***

There is more to the story of TMA Agent Dylan Moon; however, I do not want to give any false hopes in suggesting that 'more' will be coming soon. I do have a feeling, though, that the files of the TMA will not be kept sealed for good . . . .

Thank you for reading, and if you are so inclined, please leave a vote for the story and even a comment, if you wish.