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Stacy wakes in a darkened room. The adrenaline of remembering her
situation instantly erases the calm, pain-free, wonderful sensations of
the tranq dart. In seconds, Jake is awake. They discover, once their eyes
adjust to the moonlight entering a thick, five inch wide window, that they
are in a wide, circular janitor's closet. There are very few supplies.
Some chemicals. A mop. Three buckets of screws. Two hammers. A book by L.
Ron Hubbard. Eighteen rubber bands. The door is thick oak and seems strong
enough to withstand artillery fire. Jake laughs. "Guys here must have watched MacGuyver." Stacy remembered that. "Not something to laugh about, Jakey-boy. That means they intended to lock us in." "True." said Jake. "True. But it tells us a lot. There's only three originizations that hate Callahan's Bar and have the resources to outfit their janitor's closet doors." "Why in the name of crap does a bar have orginizations that hate it?" "We do rescues all the time. The King Bon Fi, a mafia faction based out of Rhode Island, hate us for freeing twelve of their high level accountant- slaves. It was a whole 'Rain-Man' imprisonment thing going on and I apologize but I forget the technical terms for Dustin Hoffman's math abillities."
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4/28/2008 11:16:38 AM
Extending Enabled
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