May 1999. New York City, New York.

   He sat in the nondescript Chevrolet Cavalier in front of the New York City brownstone. His car was completely bland, just like him. Besides him was a bag of greasy french fries. Nothing unusual. Except a long overcoat in the passenger seat, with a rifle underneat the coat. To some, the man was known as Jacky; he hadn't used his real name in decades. Jacky would wait for minutes, hours, days, no matter how long it took. Just long enough for him to get the right shot. At 12:07AM his target came out of his house. The target was a tall man with a hooked nose, easily recognizable.
   Three other men was with the tall man, there was no clear shot. Jacky swore profusely. Only a second to think. Take the shot? Or wait for a better angle? He squeezed the trigger. Once, twice, three times. Two men fell. Jacky swore again, hit the gas, fled away from the scene.
   That night, in a small grimy motel, Jacky watched the news carefully. It didn't take long for him to find his worst nightmares. The perky announcer looked serious as she read the script. "Tonight, a shooting near the United Nations. Apparently, the target was author Mohammed Shah, who had been identified by the Shah of Iran as an enemy of the Muslims. Mr. Shah was lightly wounded. Killed in the attack was the New York City Deputy Police Commissioner, Robert Brinks, who had been escorting Mr. Shah. Police are currently conducting a manhunt for the shooter.
   Jacky swore. What bad luck! The murder of an author would have been forgotten...but the top of the police force spelled trouble. He hurried out to the Chevrolet, pointing the car West. He tapped his fingers nervously to the beat of the radio. Two weeks later, police would find his abandoned car outside a dense wooded forest in Portland, Oregon. An intense FBI manhunt would capture nothing but squirrels.

January 2000. Portland, Oregon.

   "Hey, get a picture of me in front of this sign!" said Val. Jonathan snapped a picture with his digital camera. The two were in their twenties, and enjoying the charms of Portland. "Well, what should we do next," asked Val.
   "Good question. Maybe we should take the train to the bookstore?" Jonathan suggested. They studied the map, and figured out where the train, called the MAX, would stop. They walked down the street. The streets were crowded with people talking and laughing, on an attractive Northwestern day. A policeman idly sat on his bike a block away from the train station.
   "Hey!" yelped Val. Jonathan turned around to see a woman with a backpack standing near Val.
   "Excuse me," the woman said. She was of medium height, with blonde hair, and curiously enough, she was wearing two backpacks. She took one backpack off, placed it on the ground, and continued down the street.
   "She was swinging that backpack, almost hit me with it," Val explained.
   "Oh ok," Jonathan said. "Take it easy." He knew that Val, although demure in appearance, had taken quite a few martial arts courses.
   Val picked a piece of paper off the ground and studied it before putting it in her pocket. "She dropped this paper," said Val. "And she left her backpack here. Quite strange."
   Val and Jonathan waited for the train. Val had one eye on the backpack. She also noticed that another man, short and chubby, seemed to be watching the backpack also. After a few minutes, a tall, lanky man with a baseball cap on came walking down the street. Without pausing, he picked up the backpack and went on.
   Jonathan was beginning to realize that a little play was taking place. Who were the actors in the play, and who were the bystanders? He watched suspiciously as the chubby man faded away, and the policeman turned his bike down the street. "Did you see all that, Val? Val?"
   Jonathan turned in surprise. She was gone. People flowed by in a colorful swarm, but Val had disappeared. "Val!," he shouted in dismay. He could not have known that she was speeding away in a car, held captive, and tightly blindfolded.

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