Thank you so much for your reviews. I appreciate them all and love reading them. Late Sunday night bonus chapter!

Melyons got the virtual chocolate for spotting the reference to Dave the serial killer that Steph's mom set her up with in 17. :)

Chapter 6

Yes, I've had a lot of training in waiting. It is an inevitable part of armed forces life. I had waited in tents and airplane hangars for hours, even days. I had waited in shit-hole houses and bunkers and army barracks and informant apartments. I had waited in sniper nests and camouflage hides. I had waited in trucks and cars and airplanes and helicopters. Even ships and boats occasionally. No, waiting doesn't really bother me. What bothers me is not knowing what the hell I am waiting for. That's where I am right now.

I wouldn't mind waiting if I thought help was coming. But I don't really have confidence that it will. The nagging thought in my head is that we were not supposed to get onto this elevator in the first place; that it had still been out of order and that any repairs would not be happening immediately. I don't blame the woman. There had been no notice on the doors of the fifth floor that the elevator was out of order. We had both chosen to get onto the elevator. I had not even seen her inside before I stepped on. No, it isn't her fault. But there is still the possibility, probability maybe, that nobody knows we are on this elevator, because nobody expects anyone to be on this elevator.

So that leaves me with the unpleasant thought as I sit on the floor that I might be waiting for rescue that would not be coming. Or at least, not coming anytime soon. So, how the hell are we going to get out of this damn elevator? It might come down to getting out of here ourselves, but I really am fresh out of ideas for how.

I am more than prepared to wait in silence. That's another armed forces staple. You wait quietly, don't attract attention, don't compromise your position, wait in silence with your own thoughts. So I sat silently, preparing to wait, at least for a while, to see if rescue was coming.

Then she spoke.

It is just a simple statement. Just her name. Steph. Stephanie, I would assume. It suits her. But it startles me because I am used to waiting silently, and it reminds me that I am waiting with a civilian, not a soldier. I realise there is no reason not to respond, no reason to maintain silence. So, I reply, "Carlos." Then I remember, yet again, that I am supposed to be Ranger. I add, "or Ranger, if you prefer."

She queried it, of course, and I note that I had been a Ranger. She, Steph, seemed to accept this. But I can't help wondering which name she would choose to call me. A nagging voice in the back of my head told me I would prefer Carlos, but I try to ignore it. She surprises me once again when she tries to thank me for catching her. "De nada, Babe." I tend to slip into Spanish a lot lately. It is spoken almost exclusively at home with my family, and there are a lot of Spanish-speaking people in Miami, so I heard it a lot there as well.

She doesn't query the Spanish, but she does query the name. I can't help telling her that it suits her. It does. The faint tinge of pink on her cheeks indicates she likes that I think so. I have been responding in short replies. Again, it is a product of training and necessity. Reports are brief and to the point. Commands do not waste words or explanations. I know it annoys civilians, but it is ingrained for years, and the men I work with at Rangeman expect it.

So I am impressed when she speaks again, "Look, I'm sorry if you find me annoying, but I'm gonna go crazy if I can't at least talk with someone. I don't do well with waiting or silence, and sadly for you, you're the only person here I can talk to." That is amusing, and I admire her for laying it out straight like that. So I comply and ask her what she wants to talk about. We talk briefly about where we are from. She seems to blush easily, doing it again when she realises she had asked a personal question about why I had grown up away from my family. But it doesn't worry me, honestly. I came to terms with my past a long time ago, and I will never regret the years I spent with my Abuela in Miami. Or joining the army. I explain it, again concisely, and she let it drop.

Steph starts to explain that she is from Trenton. Now that is interesting. I had driven through Trenton a couple of weeks ago, when I had needed to visit Philadelphia. It had occurred to me that it was the state capital, and close enough to Newark that it might be a viable secondary location. I made a mental note to check out what security firms were operating in Trenton. She went on to say she is job hunting. I had been right; she was at the financial firm for an interview.

She is amusing as she talked about her family, but I wonder why she is struggling to find work. She seems to have an open personality and comes across as reasonably intelligent and capable. I told her so. I am surprised to hear about the firm she had worked for, EE Martin, and the mob involvement. I am definitely back in Jersey. In Miami, it wouldn't be the mob, it would be drug cartels. I guess it would explain her difficulty though, people tend to be tainted by association with that sort of thing. She said something else, but my mind is on another part of what she had said. That empty building that the financial people had complained about. They had said it was recently vacated, but the dealers and homeless had moved in almost immediately.

I ask her, "EE Martin. Is that the empty building about five blocks west?" She confirms it. Small world. I explain why I had recognised the name, and the expressions that cross her face are entertaining. Slight surprise, then an almost vindictive satisfaction. I guess she has the right to be bitter, given her current situation.

She asks me about my security business, and I explain a few details about Miami, what our services were, bounty hunting, and my expansion plans. She looks impressed, then her expression changes. "You should work in Trenton. My sleazy, disgusting cousin runs a bonds office there, and from what I've seen, there's a lot of scope for catching scummy criminals in Trenton!"

I can't help a small smirk. It is a coincidence that her cousin is in bail bonds, but I wonder at her description of her cousin. I have to repress an urge to laugh out loud at her explanation of him though. I have met some shady people in bond enforcement, but he sounds like a true slime-ball.

She went on, talking about the area where he operates, and she grew up. It sounds typical for New Jersey. When she tells me I would fit into the growing Latino community, I admire the subtle flirting. I confirm that I am indeed Latino, being Cuban-American.

That's when she said, "My dad's Italian heritage, my mom's Hungarian. So, I got my mom's metabolism and build, and my dad's hand gestures and Italian curse words." It is truly a funny thing to say, and I respond to her with my full smile. I almost laugh again when she looks dazed. I am hardly unaware of the effect I can have on women. Over the years, I have used my looks to my advantage in many situations, and I have seen women respond to my smile. She is certainly attracted to me. I don't mind. I am attracted too.

We sat contemplatively for the next few minutes. I am surprised to realise I am enjoying the banter. It is helping to stop me brooding about not knowing what to do to get us out of here. I decide to continue our conversation. "What kind of job would you really like, if you could get it?" I wonder if she had any big dreams, like Rangeman is for me.

She looks pensive, "I don't really know. I took the job with EE Martin after my divorce. It was a job I could get with my business degree. It took me away from Trenton, and I didn't have to deal with all the gossip and disapproval on a day-to-day basis." Gossip? Disapproval? I gave her a quizzical look. She went on, "Chambersburg is an insular community. Very Catholic. A bit stuck in the 50's. Women stay home and look after the house and kids. Men work, and if they have affairs, the women are supposed to ignore them, and go to church to pray. I didn't fit the mould at any point. I can't cook and I didn't like sitting at home all day. And when I caught my husband of less than three months banging my high school bully on my dining room table, I threw him out and burned the table on the front lawn. So yeah, I kinda broke the traditional mould."

She sighs, "Plus my mom is very traditional. She hated the divorce and that I wouldn't stay with him. He's a lawyer, so automatically golden in mom's eyes, and like I said, I was supposed to just ignore his indiscretions. I still live in Trenton but working in Newark means I'm not surrounded by the people there 24/7. But it wasn't a dream job, you know? Just a job."

Her mother and community sound like the one I grew up in. My mom had stayed home, my dad was the breadwinner and the boss. It was Catholic and traditional, although with more Cuban than Italian nuances. I wonder what my mom would have done if she ever caught my dad cheating on her. I can't help thinking that she would have probably ignored it and pretended it never happened. Theirs is kind of an arranged marriage. They were introduced through mutual friends and relatives. My dad had come to Florida to stay with cousins and meet my mother. They had some genteel dates and then agreed to marry. I doubt my mom would ever have complained, at least outside of the house and Confession.

In Miami, the neighbourhood where Abuela lives has changed a lot since my mom moved north to marry my dad. It is much more multicultural, at least with a wider variety of Latinos, and some African American and other communities, and more influenced by the kind of lifestyle that is common in Florida. The high school I attended certainly had kids from divorces and separations.

I tuned back in as she said, "I guess my problem is that I've never really had a dream job, you know? When I was a kid, I just wanted to fly. I wanted to be Wonder Woman. I even jumped off the roof once with a towel tied around me, trying to fly. But that's not something I could ever translate to a career." I couldn't help it, I smile again, another full smile. She is funny and a bit outrageous, and I'm finding it charming.

"What's your family like?" She asked.

"Traditional. Cuban. Actually, the community sounds a lot like yours. Catholic tradition. I have four sisters and a brother. My brother's the eldest, and I'm second youngest. Mom stayed home and dad worked. I guess it was ok as a life, but I felt a bit lost in my family. Mom was busy with all the kids, and I was one of many. Shouldn't have mattered I suppose, but somehow it did when I was young. Like I told you, I became a rebellious shit. At eleven, I was sneaking out of the house to smoke cigarettes, practice my cursing, shoplifting, getting into any kind of trouble I could. By fourteen, I'd stolen a car for a joyride with my gang-brother, kind of like an initiation. But we were caught and dragged home by the cops."

"My dad decided he'd had enough of me, and mom suggested I go to Miami to live with Abuela. It was all a done deal within a week. But it worked out for me. My Abuela was strict enough, but very loving and gentle. She never punished me herself if I got into trouble at school, she'd sit me down and ask me to explain myself. Then she'd make me help decide what my punishment should be, being grounded or doing chores or something. I knew she loved me and cared about me, and gradually I pulled myself together. By the time I'd graduated, it was with honours, and a fair few AP and college prep classes. After that, I wasn't sure what to do, so I got accepted at Rutgers business school to get a degree in two years. While I was at college, I had a friend in the Army ROTC. It got me interested, and then I knew it was what I wanted to do. Joel just wanted to be Army. But as soon as I started boot camp, I knew I wanted the Rangers."

I feel a bit dry-mouthed. I am not used to talking this much. Still, I don't think I am sharing anything I shouldn't with Steph. The situation we are in, the lack of anything else to do, seems to be inspiring more openness from me.

She starts talking again, "I only have one sister, two years older than me. St Valerie. She could always do no wrong. Cooked like a dream, good grades at school, always obeyed mom and helped her out. She went to community college to train as a secretary; very respectable and acceptable. One year working at a stockbroker firm in Philly and she's marrying the up-and-coming dynamo. They moved to California and had two kids quick-smart. Now she's the executive's wife and perfect mother." She rolled her eyes, "Cuts her blonde hair like Meg Ryan, and dresses like June Cleaver."

"I suppose I think more about what I don't want to be, what I don't want to do, than what I do want. I don't want to be a housewife and mother. I don't want to just live an ordinary, boring life until I retire at sixty, to live in the Burg babysitting grandkids. I want…," she shrugs and appears to think hard. "I want a more exciting life. Something that I look back on and think it meant something, achieved something. But I still don't know what that is." She paused, "I really admire that you've got yourself so together. That you know your goals and are working so hard to make them happen. I wish I had that too."

"Do you have any hobbies, any things you love doing when you're at home?"

She looks at me out of the corner of her eye. I can tell she is assessing me, maybe deciding if she should tell me. She must have decided it would be ok because she continues, "Actually I do. I love puzzles. Not like crossword puzzles, but like lateral thinking puzzles. I have a couple of games on CD that I play on my home computer that are like problem-solving. I've always loved solving puzzles. Coming up with ideas and testing them." She shook her head. "Not sure what that means for work though. I don't have the computer skills to make games like that."

I had some experience with this type of thing. Strategy games are staples in Army and Ranger training. Both physical strategy and intellectual, but you need to learn to solve problems for both. "Maybe you should go into law enforcement or private investigations? Or maybe crime scene technician or something?"

She wrinkled her nose at the law enforcement idea, but the rest seemed to intrigue her. "No way am I going into the police. I'd have to work with Joe Morelli, and I'd be too tempted to kill him. But private investigation sounds interesting. Not sure about the crime scene thing, although it would be interesting too. I'm guessing I'd have to go back to college though, and I'm not the best scholar. Barely made it through the first time."

"Who's Joe Morelli?" She blushed, realising she'd probably said something she didn't want to. She hesitated, before replying slowly.

"We grew up in the same neighbourhood. He's Val's age. He was kinda the bad-boy that everyone admired. Italian good looks and swagger. He got me into trouble at six, but he just went on his merry way. He slept with half the girls at my school, although he supposedly had a steady girlfriend. He… When I was sixteen, I was working at the local bakery. Joe had just graduated, and he came in as I was closing up one night. He said he wanted cannoli. Ten minutes later he had me on the floor with my panties around my ankles. Ten minutes after that he was walking out the door, saying 'Thanks Cupcake'. I guess it might not have been so bad, but before he left for the Navy the next day, he wrote all over the sub shop bathroom and stadium bathroom that I was 'A cupcake because I was soft and sweet and good to eat'."

"My mom heard about it of course and went ballistic. And it made my senior years a living hell. Both with the guys at school and with my parents suspecting I was sleeping with every boy at school if I even spoke to them or smiled at them. So, when I saw him just after I graduated standing on the street flirting with a girl, I ran him over with my dad's Buick."

I nearly froze in shock at that. "Really?" I asked.

"Yup. Jumped the curb and clipped his leg. Broke it in two places. It delayed him getting into the police academy for six months while he recuperated, so his family hates me. But he never apologised to me. Even lying on the sidewalk with a broken leg, he was trying to look up my skirt. He's scum and always will be."

I laughed out loud at that. This woman is amazing.

I've had lots of reviews talking about what might happen with Steph and Ranger when they get out of the elevator. While that might be part of this story - if that's how my muse progresses - it won't be for a while. It will be quite a few more chapters before they get out; they will…eventually… but I'm not telling you how! :) I hope you enjoy the ride though.