Where was the lady shrink anyway? Hopefully, the FBI or the cops were looking into it. No doubt, the Secret Service would have a finger in it too since the bomb's location could have affected the President. The Secret Service had been the original agency to report the threat. They'd received actionable documentation from a reliable source. Then the Washington D.C. Police Department put a plan into action and contacted his EOD team. With the holiday season cranking up the crisis levels, Devin was on one of five extra military teams in the nation's capital, assisting with possible threats and incidents.

Looking at the clock, Devin realized people were still in panic mode and yelling on the radio. Whoever had been watching on the hat cam had obviously tuned in to another station.

Well, nuts! Guess I better give someone the 411.

He cleared his throat. “Testing. 123. This is Santa One calling with an ALL CLEAR."

"Building's going to blow, man. Get the hell out!"

Devin didn't recognize the voice, but it was time the chaos halted. “Not unless there's another bomb someone hasn't told me about. This one's disabled."

"Wha-at?” Bennett Blicksen, IC and now Acting Command Center Chief and liaison between the Naval EOD Group and the Secret Service, shouted. “Devin?"

"With all due respect, Sir, that's Captain Walds.” He could barely contain the tautly held emotion in his voice as he addressed the IC. The man was unskilled and a glory hound. From what he'd learned so far, Blicksen was all about “acting” like a hero, not about saving lives. Unskilled and acting were a recipe for disaster. But what could Devin do?

He knew his values were old fashioned. He'd been taught to respect his elders and those in charge. But when a callous fool was playing Russian roulette with the public's safety because he didn't know which chamber held the bullet, or in this case which wire was which, then Devin felt perfectly comfortable standing up for what was right.

Among it was safety and… the familiar use of his first name. Only his friends and true superiors who had earned his respect could call him Devin or Dev. Everyone else had to take a number and seriously get to know him first. This guy… well, he didn't know his way around an incident or an operation or any other kind of scene. So, he planned to go with the formal approach and leave when he could. He'd ‘Sir’ this guy to death until then! “Sir, did you copy? The bomb is disabled, Sir."

"What do you mean disabled?” Blicksen's voice was incredulous. The sound of spit hitting the small mic was enough to make Devin wish he could ditch the thing. Not a good sign when the IC salivated this much.

Rolling his eyes, he crossed his legs and reached for his cell phone. Flipping it open, he texted to his CO. What next?

BZ on bomb! BZ was Bravo Zulu, which meant Good Job.

Devin nodded humbly. He was always grateful it went well.

The next text said: Wrap it!

A vision of the new CO sitting next to Blicksen ran through his mind. Why the government would let an untried lead take the helm was beyond them. Not to mention, it was downright dangerous. Was the agency personnel stretched that thin?

Another text: Nox is on his way up. Bellows and crew will scoop. Gab, grab, and go! Beers on Bends at Brinkley.

Roger Wilco! typed Devin. He'd have to file a ton of paperwork on the job. He took a couple of extra pictures with his phone and sent them to some registered accounts to assist with his backup later.

When the crew arrived, he slapped skin and took a ton of lip about getting off easy. Banter was always good after a job well done, and he let it roll off of him as he prepared to face Blicksen.

The trip down to the lobby was quiet. “Dashing through the snow” played over the speaker, while CNN rolled the tape showing the outside of the hotel. The visuals showed children being trampled by adults and men pushing past women. Two elderly women lay near the front door, crying. Their outstretched hands slapped away as people ran past.

His own buddies ran up and picked up the women, getting them to relief crews and ambulances. The men had been positioned on the periphery, watching for suspicious individuals and handling issues that came up. Blicksen was still yelling at everyone. It was obvious he didn't know what he was doing.

People were being brought by on stretchers. Their injuries were evident of trample marks and a few bullet holes. This guy was hurting more lives than he was helping. He'd created havoc where ordered calm would have served. It was a skill… being functional and effective in a crisis. Who was going to make sure this type of mess didn't happen again?

Devin's feet moved him through the lobby. Facing Blicksen came faster than he thought. Maybe he should have prepared better, calmed, or made his peace. Because the next second Blicksen was in his face, yelling at him about Devin's inability to follow orders.

In the blink of an eye, Blicksen lay on the ground, looking up at Devin from the pavement. The IC's eyes were open, but no one was home.

A woman broke from the sidelines and ran to Blicksen. She knelt on the ground and put her arms on his chest. Obviously, Blicksen had brought a civilian to the scene. That was a major no-no. When the woman looked up at Walds a string of comments laced with anger were directed at him. What he wanted to say to her was what are you doing here? This is supposed to be a secure area. What he said was… “Sorry, lady.” Devin took a step back, and he was too. If this man were hers, she'd put up with more chaos than she probably wanted. “I'm sure he'll be fine… unfortunately.” The last word was mumbled, but he was away from the whole mess. All he wanted was to do his job and disengage.

Blicksen would have a souvenir for a few days, to remember Devin by. A broken nose for sure. But if Lady Luck were still with him, it'd be a broken upper jaw, too.

Stepping over the prone man, Devin walked away. Leaving the IC to his unconscious state.

His new CO would chuckle in private, but without a doubt militarily he'd give Devin an earful. There was little to no tolerance when it came to fighting in public. Then again… the sidewalk had been slippery and his fist might have saved Blicksen from a very bad fall.

Devin squared his shoulders. He would take his share of whatever needed to come. It had been worth it. Besides, Blicksen was lucky, and he'd gotten off light. If I'd really had my way, he wouldn't put anyone else in jeopardy ever again. Because what Devin really wanted to do was kill the man who'd caused so much unnecessary chaos and danger to those around him.

It was empty, a blank page. The white paper sat devoid of emotion, decision, input, or treatment. Instead, it waited to become, to hold something of importance. There was no predetermination or denouncement from it, only a willingness to be patient and to accept what she would place upon it.

This was a judgment free zone. That's what she liked to call it. There were no rules here. Even the absence of them didn't make it have to be something in particular. What this environment and experience was could be classified as a continual flow. Because here she acted on her most primal instincts and encouraged those who entered her realm to do creative work to act as they must, too.

The sensation of freedom was palpable. Like a tangible quality it flowed all around as if the air held a magic elixir upon which creation could continually burst with newness.

Kathryn Marie Pente looked at the wooden plaque near her easel. It was an 8 1/2” x 11” celebration sheet and on its shellacked top were quotes sealed for their protection. They read: “A painting by Kathryn Marie has substance, and will stand as a tribute to nature's upheavals and life's remarkable beauty,” Bing, The Village Voice. “Turning your senses on edge could make you doubt your own eyes, unless Pente has inked its direction. With magnificent strokes, she has outdone her contemporaries and created watercolor masterpieces,” The Times, Xander, Art Critic. “Sharing your soul is never easy, but Kathryn Marie Pente's art opens hearts and the door for everywhere,” Courier News, Doc Beston's art column. “To the best sister ever. I love you! May your art always make the world take notice and praise you beyond your need and expectations,” Love, Brenda.