Prologue

The rules and regulations kept encroaching on my freedoms ... do this ... that ... the other. DON’T do that ... or that ... nope ... never ... and for sure not that. Australia ... the civilized parts ... was looking like NEW YORK CITY ... and cameras, cameras cameras ... every corner, every store, crosswalk and intersection. Not only did you DO that ... we have photographic proof.

Then they ... and we all know who ‘they’ are ... wanted to wire up MY mine.

“Not that we’ve had complaints ... your employees love you.”

‘And you want to know why,’ I thought.

“Gentlemen ... please. I have no idea,” Abby insisted.

“Surely...”

“No!” she said, yet again. “The smell of brewing coffee woke me up ... I took my morning shower ... dressed and came into the kitchen. The pot was on ... and one cup. A single egg cheese sausage bun in its wrapper ... still hot. No Myndee, no Daddy, no Jannali. I hollered at Alice ... she’s year 13 this year ... never eats in the morning ... skinny is in. The shower ran ... she’s out the door before I could ask. And you guys show up.” She sighed, “If you don’t mind ... I have to go to work.”

“Where are you going?”

“The mine,” she got a shocked look. “You didn’t ... you did.”

“Until we find the principal owner...” He chuckled. It was almost a giggle.

The phone rang.

The giggler picked up.

“Whom shall I say is calling?”

“I’m sorry ... she is indisposed at the moment.”

“Me? I’m the government.”

And teargas flooded the room.

Seriously ... the canisters came crashing through the windows and armed and masked men followed. Abby was hustled out the door and several muffled shots were heard in the house.

An unmarked van was waiting. Before the door closed and the vehicle was moving, Abbie was stripped.

A doctor flushed her eyes with sterile saline or water until the stinging started to abate. Her exposed skin was sprayed and washed with soap and water. Just in case breathing difficulties developed oxygen was administered and medicated bandages applied to prevent burns. She was bundled in fluffy fabric and installed in a private hospital room.

“We’re Diplomatic Protection. I suppose one could call us ‘Embassy Police’. We’re not ... we’re mostly a Quick Reaction Hit Squad. Your house is under 24/7 surveillance and has been since David moved from the States. When those jokers showed our contact called. I was quite surprised to find you still here.”

“They wanted my Dad,” she said. “They were upset he wasn’t here and more upset I didn’t know.”