"Is that all?" Morton asked, eyeing both the cap and the wire emblem greedily. Isabel imagined she could see the dollar signs forming in his bloodshot, piglike eyes.
"Not at all," Michael said boldly. He nodded at Isabel again. "If you please, lieutenant."She resisted a snarky impulse to salute, instead placing the glittering shower cap over her own sandy-blond hair. Closing her eyes behind her mirrorshades, she concentrated intently on the effect she aimed to achieve. Both Morton and the nerdy guy gasped out loud as, chameleon-like, the rubber cap morphed to match the tawny color of her tresses, becoming all but invisible. "As you can see," Michael announced, sounding like the host of some cheesy, late-night infomercial, "the helmet is endowed with astounding camouflage capabilities."Michael seemed to be enjoying himself, in a perverse sort of way, but Isabel felt extremely uncomfortable using her powers so openly in front of Morton and the odier man, even with the fig leaf of plausible deniability provided by the supposed alien technology. Unable to avoid a morose scowl, she peeled die shower cap off her head and slapped it back onto the tabletop, restoring its futuristic silver coloration as she did so. Morton reached out to inspect the cap and the wire personally, but Isabel snatched them up before he could grab onto them, and placed them back in Alex's pack in an impressive display of brisk, military efficiency., Morton grunted brutishly and tried for the pack itself, but Michael blocked him by leaning across the table between Morton and Isabel. "Whoa there, pal," he discouraged the overeager gunman. "Show and tell is over." Michael assumed a tough, hardball attitude. "Time to talk a little turkey." He coldly appraised the mismatched pair sitting across from him. "We've proven we're legitimate. What do you two bring to the table?"Watch the lip, punk," Morton rasped, bristling. Giving up on the pack for now, he crossed his arms atop his chest, regarding the two "officers" with open distrust. "Don't get smart with me. As far as I'm concerned, I still don't know you from Adam." He cocked a beefy thumb at Isabel. "What's her story anyway," he groused. "How come she never says anything?"Isabel's stomach did a nervous somersault, but Michael handled Morton's aggressive challenge with aplomb. "My colleague prefers to let me handle the verbal aspect of our negotiations," he said smoothly. "That's our own business, though. I don't see where that concerns you." He subjected the furtive scientist to a scornful stare. "After all, I don't see you volunteering the name of your silent partner there."Morton stiffened, picking up on something Michael had just said. "You don't know his name?" the startled gunman said. A suspicious edge entered his voice. "Not at all?"Oh no! Isabel thought. On the phone, she recalled, Michael had hinted that he knew all about the nameless technician from Las Cruces. Now his minor slipup seemed to have Morton reevaluating his prospective new business partners.
Cunning, red-rimmed eyes narrowed as Morton looked them both over one more time. "Just how much did Ramirez tell you anyway? And how did you find out where I was staying? I never told Ramirez that."Er, we have our own sources of information," Michael improvised vaguely, trying to recover from his careless slip of the tongue. "Like I said, that's none of your concern."Morton wasn't buying it. "No dice," he blustered. "I don't deal with anybody unless I know a hell of a lot more about them than they do about me." With surprising speed, he reached out and yanked Isabel's sunglasses off her face.
Shocked, she flinched and threw herself backward, into the far corner of the booth. For a fraction of a second, she felt like she was back at the Hangar 18 casino, staring down the barrel of the heartless killer's oversize pistol. Fearful brown eyes, suddenly exposed to Morton's scrutiny, stared in alarm at the gunman's bestial features.
For himself, Morton looked almost as stunned as the young woman he had so roughly unmasked. "You!" he blurted, crushing the stolen shades inside his fist. "You're the witch who stole my case last night." Outright fear and confusion came over his coarse, ill-shaven face as he realized that he was remembering a dream. "What the hell?" he exclaimed, loud enough to attract scandalized looks from the staff and patrons of the restaurant. "What kind of freaky head game are you playing?"Next to him, the scrawny scientist panicked. "What's the matter?" he squealed, shrinking into his seat. "What's happening?"Morton shoved the techie out of the booth in his haste to get away from Isabel. Lurching to his feet, the frothing gunman pulled out a handgun and waved it in front of Isabel and Michael. "Gimme that pack!" he roared. "Now!"Terrified shouts and screams greeted the surprise appearance of Mortons weapon. "Watch out! He's got a gun!" someone shouted as cashiers, waitresses, and customers ducked for cover. "Someone call die police!" another voice yelled.
It's the Crashdown all over again, Isabel realized, flashing on her borrowed memories of the shooting. Horror melded with deja vu as, her heart pounding, she gladly surrendered the backpack and its worthless contents to the volatile hoodlum. Morton snatched the pack by its taut straps and tossed it over to the science nerd, who clutched it against his chest. "Nobody follow us!" he shouted for all to hear, firing a bullet into the ceiling for emphasis.
Leaving the disguised aliens alone in their booth, Morton and his accomplice ran for the exit. "Oh my God," Isabel gasped. What if the two men went back to their motel room to reclaim the vital briefcase? "We have to warn Max and Liz!"Her hands shaking, she found the cell phone in her purse and somehow managed to dial the number for the Motel 6. Meanwhile, Michael stood up and, exploiting his phony uniform for all it was worth, tried to calm the upset denizens of the Denny's. "Everyone remain calm," he ordered with mock authority. "Remain in your seats. We'll be taking statements shortly."C'mon, c'mon," Isabel muttered fervidly, waiting for the motel operator to pick up. Standing up in the booth, she watched through the restaurant's clear glass windows as Morton and the other man plowed dirough an approaching party of tourists, shoving the startled bystanders aside in their headlong flight from the restaurant. She listened anxiously to the ringing of the cell phone, knowing there wasn't a minute to lose. They couldn't let Morton catch Max and Liz in his room! "Hello, Motel 6 here," a voice said chirpily into her ear, on about the fourth or fifth ring. "How can I help you?"Finally/ Isabel thought. "Connect me with room #19, right away, please! It's an emergency!"The operator obligingly transferred the call, but, to her intense distress, nobody answered. The cell phone gripped in her sweaty palms, Isabel waited in an agony of suspense to hear her brother's voice at the other end of the line. Come on, Max! Pick up the damn phone! Michael gazed at her with a worried, mystified expression, obviously wondering what was taking so long, while the phone continued to ring maddeningly. "I'm sorry," the operator broke in after a minute or so. "There seems to be something wrong with that line. May I take a message for you?"Isabel hung up the phone. "I can't get through to them," she told Michael, scared to death. "Something's gone wrong."Damn!" Michael swore, fully aware of the danger their friends were in. "Come on," he said, grabbing onto her hand and pulling her out of the booth, onto her feet. "We've got to get over there!"They ran, hand in hand, for the exit. "Wait!" someone shouted after them. "What about those reports?" A hefty male cashier tried to block their escape, but Michael knocked him aside with a blast of concussive force. Isabel hoped to heaven that their disguises were still working.