He stood on the lanai outside his office at Iolani Palace, coffee mug in hand, staring off into the distance. McGarrett was having one of those days when he tried to calculate how much open water he could put off his stern until either guilt or the governor called him back. Doesn't matter, he thought, I'm not leaving without my Little Menehune and she'd be AWOL. As tempting as sailing off into the sunset was in theory, he knew it was something he'd never put into practice.

He went back to his desk and exchanged the coffee mug for the folder containing the criminal history of one Charles Arthur Rhodes, aka Big Chicken. He glanced down at his watch. In exactly one hour, at four in the afternoon to be precise, the doors of Oahu State Prison would open and Big Chicken and five other convicts would be released. He could picture the smile on the smarmy cons face as he walked out into the free air where the Reverend Simon Leeds and the United Church of the Living Truth had arranged a press conference.

He wasn't angry. He was way past that. He had reached the point of cold, single-minded intensity that was the other side of anger. He'd never had an investigation that had been blocked at so many points by so many factors. Even Five-O's most reliable and trustworthy informants refused to say anything about the church or the mission on Hotel Street. Sending Vice in had been met by a roadblock. The same with Fraud and Bunco. The sheriff and members of the city council had the audacity to try preventing HPD officers from making routine patrols by the church or the mission. He was almost desperate enough to send Ivory Thompson into the mission wearing a wire, just to see what they were getting up to, only she was a soldier, not a police officer, and it was too risky. The military had rules of engagement. Big Chicken didn't.

He had tried. The rest of the team had tried. They had pushed themselves to the limits with long hours and late nights. The tail on Roxanne Harris had so far turned up zilch and been canceled. The only thing of interest they had managed to find on her was why she had suddenly disappeared from the Islands. Sister Roxie had been up to her old tricks when she tried to con a man who wouldn't be conned. The man, Hiru Shitake, was a member of the Japanese mob in town to do a little business that involved the smuggling of black tar heroin from Asia's Golden Triangle. Roxie had barely escaped with her life, and had fled to the mainland, setting up shop in San Diego, where she had been busted on a human trafficking charge involving underage Mexican girls. The charge was later reduced to misdemeanor pandering when the girls were deported back to Mexico. Same song, different course, Duke had said when he handed him the report.

"She did a year at San Diego's Los Colinas Prison," Duke had said, "where she got involved with a church group called the True Vine of the Lord, led by one Reverend Samuel Solomon. How well do you know the Bible, Steve?"

"Not nearly as well as you do, I suspect. I come from a long line of Irish Catholics who let the women do the praying. The last time I was in church was for funeral."

"This is my theory, and it may sound a little far fetched, so bare with me. All these names are Biblical. Samuel was an old testament prophet who anointed Saul as the first king of Israel. Solomon is known as being the greatest and wisest king of all time. Now we've got the Reverend Simon Leeds. Go to the new testament and you find one Simon Peter, who was one of the original church leaders. This is all to co-incidental to be random."

"You may be on to something there, Duke." McGarrett had said, getting up and going to Danny's office.

Danny was at his desk, sifting though a pile of computer printouts. "Danno, get back to the computer lab. I've got a whole new set of parameters for the Iron Brain."

Danny gave him a crooked smile as he stood up, stretching the kinks out of his back as he did. "Not iron, Steve, silicon. That's what makes the things work these days."

"I don't care it the thing needs a shot of gin every two hours, as long as it works. I need you to start looking for ministers with Biblical names in charge of prison ministries. Start on the West Coast with Reverend Samuel Solomon and the True Vine of the Lord and work your way East."

"That's still pretty vague. It's going take a while." Danny said.

"Your wife's in DC, it's not like you have a social life anymore." Steve said, smiling at his second-in-command.

"Don't remind me," Danny said as he was putting on his jacket. He missed Beverly more than ever.

Danny had been right. The trail was there and had led to a Reverend John Luke Daniels in San Antonio, Texas, to a Reverend Hosea Moses in Brownsville, and to about two dozen others they were trying to sort through. Even with the computers, it was slow going, but at least it was a start. The fingerprints on the flier Compton had brought in had been partials and so far no luck identifying who they belonged to. The photo's weren't much help either. Change clothes, change hair, grow a mustache, a little cosmetic work here and there, get a whole new appearance. There was new facial recognition software that could be used, only you needed a court order to use it, and so far, they couldn't find a shred of probable cause.

"I'm sorry, Steve," John Manicote had said at their usual Friday meeting, "a lifetimes worth of cop instincts won't hold up in court. I can't get a warrant without the probable cause that you don't have. You know I trust your gut instincts more than I trust most people's facts. Doesn't do any good."

"So Big Chicken walks and we wait?" he'd asked.

"That's about it. I had the attorney general's office go over the video of your meeting with Rhodes. They couldn't find any evidence of a threat made by Chicken. However, there's a very good record of you losing that famous temper of yours. The good news being that Chicken has graciously declined not to press excessive force charges."

He'd gone back to his office, too annoyed to do much more than stare out the window and re-read the files, looking for something, anything that would result in a search warrant.

There was a soft knock on the door and Jenny came in with a courier envelope from the ATF. "I thought you'd want this as soon as it came in," she said.

"Thanks, love. Call Duke and let him know it's here, please."

"Will do," she said, putting a bottle of cold pineapple juice on the desk.

"What, no coffee?" he asked.

"Doc says you drink too much coffee. Drink your juice." She left before he could argue with her. He opened the juice, noting it was a locally bottled brand that Maggie always bought because it was pure juice with no sugar or preservatives added. It was ice cold and insanely delicious.

He opened the envelope and took out the papers inside. Two concealed carry permits, one for Maggie, one for Lu. He'd had to get the ATF to expedite the paperwork to get them so soon, even though it was proving to be an exercise in futility. Maggie had refused to go to the firing range. She could shoot, she had said, and hit what she aimed at and didn't need or want any target practice. Duke had taken Lu down to the range the same afternoon to familiarize her with the .45 he was insisting she carry. Lu had fired one clip, hitting a tight cluster into center mass with all but one round, and told him that was enough for her.

"Good shooting, magic lady," Duke said. "I thought Steve was bringing Maggie by."

"No. Maggie does not do firing ranges. The last time she did, I thought we were going to have to sedate her. She has a huge issue with gunfire, especially if someone opens up with an automatic. Understandable after Desert Storm. I can about deal with it, only I wasn't in firefight. She was."

Duke nodded. "You okay?" he asked, holding her close, remembering how he'd been for months after he'd returned from Vietnam, hypersensitive to his surroundings and jumping at loud noise. He'd gotten over that after a year or so and hoped that one day the nightmares would end.

"You could take me out for a drink. Or maybe just take me home and hold me for a while."

"I think that can be arranged," he said, opening her door.

That was Tuesday afternoon. Now he sat across from Steve, reading over the permit for Susan Louise Yablanski.

"I don't even know why you bothered," Duke said. "They can't carry on Ft Shafter even if they have a permit."

McGarrett had been on guard since being invaded by reporters Monday night. Duke had a similar occurrence two days later when his daughter had asked about the gray sedan parked down the street from their house.

"He's been there all day, Daddy, and I know he was here last night. It's kinda creepy." For a seventeen year old, Lillie was unusually level headed. It took a lot to shake her, and if she thought the guy in the car was creepy, he probably was.

Duke had to agree with his daughter. From a vantage point in the attic he scoped out a middle aged male holding a pair of binoculars sitting in the front seat, his back to the passenger side door. He'd traded his uniform and service revolver for jeans, an aloha shirt and a .45. He went out the back door, through the gate and into the alley, and, polite as ever, asked the neighbor watering her roses two houses down if he could cut though her yard to the street.

He crossed the street and turned down the sidewalk. The man with the binoculars was either new at surveillance or just didn't care. His back was to the door and the window was open to catch the breeze.

"Want to tell me why you're watching my house, Brudah?" Duke asked, sticking the .45 in the man's ear.

"Uh... pretty girls?" he stammered.

"Wrong answer. The only girls at my house are my daughter and my girlfriend, and you're not authorized to watch either of them. Out of the car."

He had the man sitting on the ground, handcuffed, when HPD arrived. The name on his ID said Carlton Sanders and he refused to say any more, demanding a lawyer before the handcuffs had even snapped closed. Duke had the car towed and impounded for Che's inspection, mostly because he could.

McGarrett hadn't had any better luck running down the whoever had tipped off Meyers and his cameraman to the bogus hit. Phone records had produced a pre-paid cell phone addressed at a vacant lot and belonging to a man currently occupying a crypt at Punchbowl. The damned criminals were starting to get smarter.

"Sanders still cooling downtown?" McGarrett asked.

"Sprung late yesterday, plead down to petty voyeurism. Bondsman said he paid cash. If he shows up at my house again he's going to need insurance."

"Don't think he's going to." McGarrett said. "I have a feeling someone was testing the waters. Why else send a news crew to my house on phony tip?"

"Good question. One we really need to find the answer to, and soon." Duke said.

Danny and Kono came in, carrying stacks of computer printouts. For the first time in days they felt like they was making real progress. "Okay, looks like I've found the pattern." Danny said. "You were right, Duke. All those Biblical names lead back to one man. William Blake Hudson, age fifty-five, religious huckster of the first order. If there's a scam to be pulled in the name of God, he's pulled it. I've traced him all the way back to Waycross, Georgia where he started and across the mainland until he fetched up on the West Coast at Los Colinas Prison, where he met up with our girl Roxie about four years ago. I think I just found your probable cause to turn on the facial recognition software."

"Good work," McGarrett said. " Any wants or warrants out for Mr. Hudson or any of his alter ego's? I'd love to collar him at his own press conference."

"No such luck. So far, the good reverend has managed to avoid both arrest and prosecution. Some of his church members haven't been so lucky. Four are currently serving time in various federal prisons for assorted money laundering scams, as well as one pyramid scheme a la Jim and Tami Baker."

"If we prove Leeds, Solomon, and Hudson are one in the same then we've got all the probable cause we need for wire taps and warrants. Find someone at the Justice Center who hasn't left for the weekend and get the warrants for the facial recognition software. Think you've got enough pictures for the software to work?"

"If not, I know where I can find more. He's hiding in plain sight on the internet. Lots of pictures to choose from." Danny looked at his watch. "Want to turn on the news? It's time for Chicken's big moment in the spotlight."

"I'd rather poke myself in the eye with a sharp stick. Not much else we can do here tonight. Danno, get those warrants and then let's call it a week. Who's on call?"

"Me, Boss," Kono said, raising his hand.

"Keep an ear open for anything that sounds odd. I'm getting a really bad feeling about all this."

"Want me to get Compton and his girlfriend back into the church Sunday? I know they're both game for it," Duke said.

"No, too risky for the girl. Get a unmarked car and a photographer down there for Sunday. I want as many pictures of the good churchgoers as you can get."

"On it." Duke said. "Anything else?" Susan would be at his house at six. He couldn't wait to see her.

"Not that I can think of now. That's it, gentlemen. I'll see you all on Monday unless something breaks."

McGarrett shoved the case folders and Maggie's concealed carry permit into his briefcase. He called Maggie's cell phone and got her voice mail. He called her line at the Stars and Stripes, only to get more voice mail. He waited ten minutes and called her cell once more. This time she answered it on the third ring.

"You know I don't like answering the phone when I'm driving," she said.

"I know, baby," he said, hoping he didn't sound as relieved as he felt. "I'll be home at five. Why don't I take my favorite lady out to dinner tonight?"

"Sounds great, since I really don't feel like cooking. You sure you're up to it? You've been putting in some long hours this week."

"I'm fine. I'll see you at home," he said, hanging up the phone. He put on his jacket, picked up his briefcase, and went out to his car, hoping to get ahead of the rush hour traffic. With luck, he'd get home as she was pulling into the driveway. Until he knew what Big Chicken was up to, he didn't like having her out of his sight.

He knew what Chicken was capable of. McGarrett had seen it all too often when one of the girls in Chicken's stable displeased the fat man. During the hostage standoff at the prison Chick had cracked three of his ribs and had left bruises on his abdomen that rivaled the sunset for colors and that was before he had bulked up pumping iron.

He didn't want that slimy creep anywhere near his Little Menehune.

For once he was home before she was. He took advantage of the situation by running hot water into the Jacuzzi. Yes, he thought, a soak in the tub before dinner. I think we both need it. The tub was still filling when he heard her car pull into the driveway, AC/DC's Thunderstruck at ear bleeding decibels blasting from the CD player. Music to drive by, she called it. He had a hard time calling it music, although he did concede that there were times heavy metal just worked.

She joined him in the bedroom, wearing a green army blouse and the class A skirt, her jacket over her arm, beret still perched atop her head. "How's my Little Menehune?" He asked, bending to kiss her cheek.

"Tired," she said, leaning against him.

"There's hot water in the Jacuzzi. All you have to do is get in and turn on the jets."

"Do I get some company?" she asked.

"It's a big tub. I'd hate to see all that extra water going to waste." he said, taking off his tie and unbuttoning his shirt.

"Give me about five minutes to get out of this uniform and pin my hair up and I'll join you," she said.

She was soon gloriously naked. She slid into the tub next to him, leaning against his shoulder. "I'm sorry, honey," she whispered,"I didn't realize how tired I was until I stopped moving. I don't know if it's the weather or just me but all I want to do lately is sleep."

"Same here," he said, pulling her closer. He switched on the jets, letting the bubbles and hot water massage the weariness from their bones.

"Then let's just stay home. We can watch a movie or read or..."

"Or what?" he asked.

"How about just going to bed and going to sleep. Tomorrow Lu and I start wedding planning. It's going to be a busy day. I've got appointments at two bridal salons and the printers for the invitations."

"How big of a production is this going to be?" he asked, laughing softly.

"Not as big as you're imagining. It's going to be beach casual. Nothing fancy."

"Anything I need to do?"

"Keep me from turning into bridezilla?" she said. She felt herself relaxing as he massaged her neck and shoulders. "You can keep that up all night."

"Steve, honey?" she asked after a while. "Is there something going on that I need to know about?"

"Not really," he said. "Why do you ask?"

"Because Lu and I compared notes at lunch today, that's why. We've both been reporters for a long time; we know when somethings up. Call it instincts. We had reporters lurking in the bushes. Duke had a man in car with a pair of binoculars watching his house two days later. If we don't answer our phones by the second ring, both of you are ready to send out the squad cars, and then you want to see how well we can shoot? The pair of you are being way too overprotective. You want to tell me what's going on?"

He held her closer. He should have known she'd figure it out sooner or later. "I didn't realize I was being that overprotective." He said, mentally sifting through the data in his head to find the right thing to tell her. "I know you heard about the ruling from the Supreme Court last week, the one that says Hawaii's habitual offender law is unconstitutional?"

"I remember it was on the news and that you weren't happy about it." She'd also read the story in the Courier. When he'd been asked to comment, all McGarrett had said was, "There's a reason we cage wild animals." The reporters had loved it and Sheriff Murphy had said that it was that type of antiquated thinking that was preventing Hawaii from taking it's rightful place in American society. What McGarrett had said about the sheriff's comment couldn't be printed in a family newspaper.

"The same decision also required expedited parole hearings for the prisoner's that have been locked up the longest. Six of them walked out of Oahu State Prison this afternoon. I sent four of them up, Duke sent two. We don't think they're going to try anything," or at least not until after they've all got drunk and got laid, the cold logical part of his brain said silently. "We're just taking a few added security precautions, is all. There probably isn't anything for you to worry about." Because I'm doing enough worrying for both of us.

She reached up to kiss his cheek. "Thank you for worrying about me, honey, and I really do appreciate you looking after me, but we'll be fine. Lu and I are both big girls. We even managed to survive the Gulf War. You're worrying over nothing."

What he wanted to say was the Gulf War put you in an Army hospital for six months learning how to walk again after the docs wired your spine back together and left you with a world class case of PTSD. He didn't, though, he just held her, cherishing how good it felt just to hold her.

Big Chicken surveyed his creation, and found that it was good. He sat behind the huge mahogany desk of the office in his new apartment of the third floor of the United Church of the Living Truth's mission on Hotel Street, close enough to the action on the street and in the Little Jungle yet far enough away to be out of the prying eyes of Five-O and HPD, going over the books and notes made by Sister Roxanne.

Roxie had not aged well. Chick thought she looked disgusting. She'd had the gall to suggest they should even resume their relationship. As if he was interested in a washed out used up loser like Roxie. He had his sights set on something a lot finer and a whole lot less shopworn.

A Cuban cigar smuggled in from Hong Kong smoldered in the ashtray. A snifter of aged cognac next to it. He was going over the ledgers and god how the money rolled in. It was truly astonishing how much cash could flow through a not for profit. It wasn't like the IRS was allowed to open the tithing envelopes brought in every Sunday and Wednesday by the working girls from Trick City. It was the same with the street dealers. They played by Chick's rules, or they didn't play at all. He had used his influence inside the prison to build up his business on the outside. It was easy enough if you knew the right people, knew which guard was having money problems or was cheating on his wife. Then he had met Reverend Leeds. The man was as twisted as a corkscrew, but he had the face, the look, and above all else the convincing air of a televangelist who had people giving until it hurt. It was Leeds idea to have the working girls 'tithe' their earnings to the church. How he loved those little envelopes stuffed with untraceable tax free cash.

He picked up one of the contact cards that Roxie had gathered from the services. Most of them went straight into the nearest garbage can. The ones for promising young talent went to Chick and the Reverend for final approval. Chick read over the card once more. Roxie was an idiot, and idiots were liabilities. He couldn't afford liabilities.

"Roxie, honey," he said, voice as oily as ever. "You are a fucking idiot. Do you ever think? You invited this girl to the mission for an interview."

"But..." Roxie stuttered. "She's gorgeous. Some sort of creole mix. Nice fresh face. She'll make bank first weekend."

"No, she won't, Roxie, and you know why. I'm going to tell you why, because you obviously don't think or you would know. She works for the goddamned Stars and Fucking Stripes! If she isn't a reporter than she knows a shit ton of the vultures. Get out of my sight! You're disturbing my calm."

"Think maybe you were a little too hard on her there, Charles," Reverend Leeds asked after Roxie had left.

"Please, Reverend," Chick said. "Roxie is only good for one thing, and that's an eye for the goods. Fortunately, she's trained a new girl with a better eye. One who isn't trying to recruit from the WAC corps. Is this evenings entertainment set up and ready?"

"All of it. May I voice my objection to Barker. The man's an ass. Talks way too much."

"Which is why he's such a wonderful asset. He talks so much no one listens." He picked up the new cell phone the Reverend had given him. He loved the thing. Press menu, and there was a coded list of every contact he ever needed, compact and easily destroyed by submerging in salt water. He hit Barker's number. Chick instructed him to come to his office.

Barker was tall, skinny, hairy and balding. He called himself 'Bulldog' trying to sound tougher than he really was and claimed to be a 'made' man from the East Coast mob. He had been dishonorably discharged from the Navy, a feat that was next to impossible to pull off these days. He'd been stranded in Hawaii when the woman he was shacked up with got sick of his crap and threw him out. He was always bragging about his accomplishments, whatever the hell they were. All he did was run his mouth and chase women.

"Are you ready for your night's work?" Chicken asked.

"Give the word, Reverend Rhodes. Ready when you are." Barker was eyeing Chicken's cigar. Chick wasn't in the mood for sharing.

"Good. I want it to go exactly as planned. If you get caught, well, don't get caught."

"No one's caught me yet. Tonight's a cakewalk." He turned to leave.

"Barker," Chicken said. Barker turned to face Chicken as he stood at the door. "Take Roxie with you, and don't bring her back. Good boy. I'll see you later." After Barker left, Chicken turned to the Reverend. "Bring them in."

The reverend took out his phone and spoke a few words. Five minutes later the door opened and three girls entered the room. All three were refugees from Burma. They were small, thin, and scared. They had been told they were going to America to work in a factory. Two of the girls were sisters and the third was their cousin. All were under 15 and were guaranteed to be virgins by the snakeheads who had smuggled them into the country. Chick looked them over. Perfect. When he was done they'd be sent out on the streets to recoup the money he'd paid the smugglers.

"Girls," he said, leering, "It's time to party with Uncle Chicken."