A/N: Some people need coffee, I need reviews. Don't forget to let me know how you like the story so far!

FIVE

I woke up a little after ten Friday morning, took a leisurely shower, made some coffee, ate a bowl of cereal, and eventually rolled into the bonds office around noon. Just Connie and Vinnie occupied the office.

"You find George Fortecelli yet?" Vinnie asked, sticking his head out of his office.

"No, but I brought in Johnny Barker last night." I handed my body receipt to Connie so she could cut me a check.

"I don't care about Barker," Vinnie shot back. "There's a lot of money riding on Fortecelli. I want him brought in before the new year."

"Then you better haul him in yourself," I replied, "cause I'm going out of town for the weekend."

Vinnie huffed, grumbled, and locked himself in his office. Connie rolled her eyes and handed me my check for Barker.

"Where you going?" she asked.

"New York City. Ranger asked me to help out with a personal security job."

Connie's eyes got big and she fanned herself. "Talk about starting the new year off right."

Yeah, tell me about it. "Have you seen Lula today?" I asked to steer the conversation away from Ranger.

Connie shook her head, so I called Lula.

She answered after a few rings, "What's up?"

"Just checking to make sure you're okay," I said.

"I'm more than okay. Turns out I didn't need to get that bartender's number. He lives right around the corner, so we went back to his place after Rosie's closed."

I tried unsuccessfully to avoid a mental picture of what followed. "You want to ride shotgun while I go to CampTech to ask about Fortecelli?"

"Nah, I think I'm gonna get stuff ready for the Occupy the Impound Lot protest this afternoon. I made a group for it on Facebook and I think we're gonna get a real good turn out. See you there."

Damn. I'd forgotten that was today.

"Um, yeah, see you there." With any luck, I'd get a good lead on Fortecelli and a good excuse to skip the protest.

I hung up, wished Connie a Happy New Year, and left the bonds office. I stopped by my bank to deposit my check, then headed to the industrial park that houses CampTech. A gated entrance with a security shack guarded the only way in or out of CampTech's property.

I pulled up to the guard house and rolled down my window. A bored looking guard sat inside, playing solitaire on a desktop computer.

"Can I help you?" the guard asked.

"I need to speak with HR about a former employee."

"Do you have an appointment?"

"Yes."

The guard gave me an appraising look. "I don't have any appointments on my log."

"Okay, no, I don't have an appointment. Do I really need one just to talk to HR?"

The guard gave me an apologetic I don't make the rules shrug. "Unfortunately, you do. We had some problems about a year and a half ago, and we really had to ramp up security. Here," he handed me a business card out the window, "just give this number a call and see if you can set up an appointment."

I backed away from the guard booth and into the road, drove a few hundred feet, then pulled over. I called the number on the card and got to an automated system. I immediately pressed zero and soon spoke to a general receptionist, who transferred my call to HR. The HR secretary asked me my business, and when I explained who I was and why I wanted an appointment, abruptly told me that employee files are confidential and hung up.

I was still trying to decide where to go from here when Lula called.

"Can you pick up Celia and bring her to the Occupy protest? I was supposed to get her, but I've got a car full of my neighbors who want to come."

"Sure." Looked like fate would make sure I went to this protest.

I drove back to the Burg and pulled in front of Celia's house. I helped her load some signs into the back of the Jeep and then I drove her toward the impound lot. We were about two blocks away when we hit the road block. Trenton PD had the road closed.

"I hope this isn't a tactic to try to deter people from protesting," remarked Celia as I cut down a side alley and started looking for a place to park. There were cars everywhere and even a few charter buses. I spotted Lula's red Firebird ahead and found a spot on the street a few cars farther up. Celia and I gathered up her signs and hiked the sidewalk toward the impound lot. We passed several satellite news vans.

I heard the people before I saw them. Hundreds of voices chanted together, though I couldn't make out the words. Half a block from the impound lot, I spotted the sea of bodies. There were easily several hundred protesters clogging the sidewalks and street around the police impound lot.

"Wow. Lula said she thought she was going to get a good turn out, but I didn't expect this," gasped Celia. "Guess I'm not the only one who's fed up with the police taking my stuff."

"I think this goes a little beyond just impounding cars," I returned, gaping at the protest. The signs I could read had very little to do with the Trenton PD and their impound policies and a lot more to do with anti-police sentiment in general. A new chant started, this one easily understandable: fuck the cops. The crowd worked itself into a frenzy. A line of police worked the perimeter of the protest, and I could tell from their faces they were worried. The news crews were out and about, interviewing the protestors and capturing video footage.

"I think we need to leave," I told Celia.

"We just got here! What about my car? What about occupying the impound lot?"

Someone yelled, "free the cars!" and a hundred people threw their weight against the metal chain link fence surrounding the impound lot. It swayed ominously before bouncing back into place.

I saw someone in a bright orange police vest moving toward us. It took me a minute to realize it was Morelli.

"This is a powder keg," he told me sternly, wearing his cop face. "The state police are on their way with riot gear. If it doesn't explode before then, it will when they show up. I want you out of here, now!"

For once, he'd get no argument from me. "What about you? You're wearing a big orange target on your chest."

Morelli's eyes softened. "Good to know you care. I don't want to be here either, but I don't get a choice."

"Be careful," I told him, before rashly kissing him.

I heard someone near us yell, "Cop Lover! Get her!"

Something collided with the side of my head and I felt cold slime dripping down my face. I touched my fingers to the slime and realized it was a raw egg. Two more eggs exploded against my torso. Morelli instinctively moved between me and the protestors, and I heard several eggs splat against his back.

At the same time, a squeal of metal signaled the impound lot fence finally crashing down under the weight of the protesters. Somewhere, a shot rang out and everyone froze for a second before complete bedlam broke out. Half the protesters broke for their cars, others poured into the impound lot, prying open car doors and breaking windows. The truly stupid decided to engage the police with eggs and rocks.

"Go!" Morelli yelled, pushing me into the stream of people running away.

"Don't get shot," I shouted as he disappeared into the melee.

I dropped the signs and let the flow of people take me away from the insanity. I lost Celia in the crush of people, but found her waiting at the Jeep. I looked back up the street and saw Lula walking toward her Firebird and breathed a sigh of relief.

"How did you get that many people to come?" I demanded of her.

Lula shrugged. "I made an event on Facebook called Occupy the Impound Lot and I made it public, and it just took off. People were sharing it like crazy. Someone put together a bus of people to come in from Philadelphia and another from Newark and New York. People want to stand up for their rights."

"That became a riot," I fired back.

"Yeah, I guess it did get a little out of control at the end. But I think we made our point."

I drove Celia home, then returned to my apartment. I got a text from Morelli letting me know the situation was now under control and he was safe. I showered to get the egg out of my hair, then put on pajama pants and a loose t-shirt without a bra. I became a vegetable on my couch for the rest of the night. Blessedly, I didn't appear in any of the protest footage on the nightly news.

The morning of New Year's Eve I put in a half-hearted effort to track down George Fortecelli through social media. Facebook provided a digital way to stalk FTA's and I could do it in my pajamas. People liked to "check-in" places, post pictures, and tag each other. It was a bounty hunter's dream come true.

I turned on my laptop and logged into Facebook. Happily, I no longer trended for the tree rescue incident. I typed Fortecelli's name into the search bar and soon found his page. He knew how to use privacy settings, unfortunately, so I couldn't see much. We had no mutual friends. I tried Frankie next. Frankie wasn't as tight with his security. His last couple of posts were memes against big pharma, and a link to an article about how the government and big pharma were covering up the cure for cancer. I scanned his list of friends and saw a face I recognized, the female neighbor who'd said she only had contact with him when he brought over baked goods.

I clicked her picture and discovered her name was Andrea Grayson. Out of curiosity, I went back to George's profile and scanned his friends. I found Andrea again. I sent her a friend request, figuring it was a long shot, but some people will friend anyone. I also sent friend requests to a few other random people. Maybe being internet famous would prove useful. Inevitably, someone would accept the request and I could snoop a bit deeper into George's life.

A little after noon, I packed an overnight bag, showered, dressed in Rangeman black, then wolfed down some of my mother's Christmas leftovers. I filled Rex's water bottle and gave him some extra food. "I'll be back tomorrow or the day after," I told him. He looked at me with wide black eyes, shoved the food into his cheek pouch, and ran out of sight.

I waited outside, bouncing on my heels, when Ranger pulled up in his Porsche 911 Turbo. I tossed my bag into the trunk and slid in next to him. He handed me a manila folder. I opened it to find a photo of a scrawny, spectacled young man with slightly straggly brown hair.

"Is this the stalker?"

Ranger nodded as I looked over the notes on twenty-two-year-old Aaron Grathy. Former NYU student, until he dropped out, with a 4.0 GPA majoring in computer science. No history of violence or a criminal record. A little nerdy, but otherwise not a guy I would have pegged to send a dead rabbit and threatening notes to some girl he had a crush on.

"He doesn't seem that scary," I commented to Ranger. "You really think he's a viable threat?"

"I think he's got a few screws loose, and those kinds of people can be the most dangerous. But if you're asking if I'm wearing a flak jacket on this assignment, no, I don't think he's that kind of a threat."

A little over an hour and a half later, we pulled under the awning of the Waldorf Astoria in the middle of downtown Manhattan. Ranger retrieved both our bags and tossed the key to the valet.

Ranger checked us in while I gaped at the elaborate lobby like an overseas tourist. He handed me a key card and I followed him into an elevator, watching in awe as the numbers kept climbing. When we got out and he opened the door to our suite, my jaw promptly hit the floor. The room was huge, with a large sitting area. The bedroom contained a massive king-sized bed. Lavish red and gold hues decorated the space and the open curtains revealed a breathtaking view of the city.

I fell backwards, spread eagle onto the bed, giggling, "I can't believe we are staying at the Waldorf freaking Astoria!"

Ranger gave me an amused half smile before his eyes darkened. He leaned against me on the bed, lightly brushing his lips on mine. "We have some time. We could begin our celebration a little early."

The kiss deepened and his hands slid up my shirt and under my bra. His hand worked the clasp in the back when a loud knock sounded on our door. Ranger cursed under his breath, but got up to answer it anyway. I recognized the voice of one of his men.

Ranger stuck his head into the bedroom, looking slightly irritated. "Come on out, it's tech time."

A big black box sat open on the table in the sitting room when I entered. It was full of surveillance gizmos and guns, all tucked neatly into niches in a foam block.

Ranger handed me a tiny ear piece. You don't need to put this in until you leave with Chantelle for the restaurant. It will let us hear you and you hear us. He took it back from me, popped it into a tiny case and handed it back. I slipped it into my pants pocket.

Next, Ranger pulled a black 9mm Glock handgun out of the box.

"Is that for me?" I squeaked. It looked significantly larger than the compact, five shot .45 revolver hidden in my cookie jar.

"Babe." I took that as a resounding 'no.' Ranger dropped the empty mag and pulled back on the slide, checking to make sure it was empty. He leveled it at the far wall, testing the sights before pulling the trigger with a quiet click. Satisfied, he pulled out a loaded mag and jammed it into place, pulling back on the slide to load a bullet into the chamber. He then slid the gun into a holster on his right side. The weapon became invisible as he tugged his shirt back down.

"This is for you," he said, retrieving a much smaller pistol from the box. It was matte black and only about the size of my hand. The words Walther PPS were imprinted on the slide. He dropped the magazine and cleared the chamber before handing it to me. I couldn't believe how slim and light it felt.

"This is only for last resorts," he told me, locking my eyes with a serious gaze. "The paperwork required after firing a gun in city limits is complicated. If you don't absolutely need to use it, don't." He pulled a small holster from the black box. "This is an inside-the-waist holster. I don't want you carrying in your purse. You'll never get to it in time if you do need it."

Ranger moved behind me and lifted my shirt, his fingers brushing against my skin ever so lightly, causing me to shudder. With his left hand steadying my hips, he slid the holster between my right hip and my pants, then pushed it forward slightly. Not quite an appendix carry position, but close. Lines of fire arced across my skin wherever he touched.

"How does that feel?"

"Hmmm."

"The holster, Babe, does it feel like it's in a natural position?"

I snapped out of it and pretended to draw an invisible gun from the holster. "I guess. Is drawing a gun ever supposed to feel natural?"

"Babe." He handed me a single stack magazine loaded with six 9mm bullets. "The smaller the gun, the worse the recoil. Remember that in case you do need to fire, and with only six shots, make them count. It doesn't have a safety, so if you pull the trigger, it will go bang."

I pushed the magazine into the gun and racked the slide, putting one into the chamber. Trembling slightly, I tucked the gun into the holster and pulled my shirt down, praying I wouldn't shoot myself in the leg by accident.

Ranger eyed me up. "Not bad. No one will know you are carrying."