"Bang, Bang, You're Dead" offers another possible solution phasing out the characters of Chris and Rita, and introducing their replacements. It takes into consideration the following: 1) Based on response from fans, Chris would not have died; 2) Purely from a practical standpoint, because so much of the producer's actual story line already had filmed, it makes use of most of the existing episode "Last Kiss Goodnight" and even parts of "Dead Asleep" from the viewpoint of a re-shot episode, and 3) it subscribes to the belief that, indeed, something very dramatic and tragic was necessary to phase out both characters. The sale or use of this document in any for-profit project is expressly forbidden. This story is not intended to infringe upon properties held by the producers.

"Officer down! ...Officer down!"
   Those words sent a lightning bolt down Detective Michael Price's 
spine. He knew first-hand that guttural scream that could only have 
originated from a policeman's trusted partner.
   "Lance?" he said aloud, momentarily losing his concentration in 
traffic along Palm Beach's ocean beltway.
   The scanner crackled. "...Beach Shore and North Shore Line Drive...."
   Michael was still new to this ritzy Florida city that, to a tourist, 
might appear to be sunny Paradise. Yet, in just five short weeks since 
his arrival, he had learned otherwise. If only he could learn his way 
around as quickly!
   "L-66 responding," he barked into the microphone, then slid the car 
into the left turn lane. Siren blaring and blue lights flashing, he 
burned rubber turning onto Ocean Bay Avenue. Beach Shore was at least 
five blocks away.
   
   When Harry Lipschitz closed the door on his way out, he thought his 
heart was going to burst.
   Behind him, in Intensive Care Unit 3 at Palm Beach Memorial Hospital, 
lay Sgt. Chris Lorenzo, heavily bandaged following surgery, a myriad of 
tubes and wires connected to the life support system.
   "He took two cop killers through the vest, Cap!" Lt. Rita Lee Lance, 
his partner of four-and-a-half years, had said. The massive blood stains 
on her red and black blazer bore testimony to the lethal power of the 
ordnance, more precisely known as Black Talons. 
   Harry had learned of their marriage barely a week before, and that 
Rita was expecting. What a crying shame!
   "...He promised me he'd be here for me and the baby."
   Was there anything he could do?
   Only moments before, Rita had glared. "Get the man that did this, and 
bring down Montoya!"
   Harry paused at the door, afraid to let go of the handle as if it 
meant letting go of Lorenzo, a best friend. Lance had been right--"What 
we all need to do is to send him positive energy now."
   "Captain, are you coming?" said Holly Rawlins, the other newcomer to 
Homicide Division. Units were still canvassing the area, she had said, 
and a possible witness had been located.
   "Let's roll."
   They had scarcely cleared the hospital's back pad when the radio 
crackled. "Black limousine spotted leaving the scene! Papa-Romeo-Echo-
Sierra-Niner-Three."
   "Dispatch, get the APB out," Lipschitz said. "I want that 
pimpmobile!"
   Then, silence until: "L-66, there's no rush. This one's 10-54."  A 
dead body.
   Lipschitz picked up the mike. "What's your twenty?"
   "The Sea Mist Motel, Lake Avenue."
   "Dispatch, you copy?"
   "Forensics en-route, sir. ETA in five."
   In the next minutes, Lipschitz fired pointed questions at the young 
blonde beside him. How had she known to come to the hospital?
   She'd heard it on her scanner, she said, and began her story.
   He already knew about the seemingly innocent date with Vice Detective 
Ray Quiller. An evening out became a night of terror; Chris, her new 
partner, had come to her defense. Ensuing confrontations and 
investigation had revealed Quiller to be a rogue cop with connections to 
south Florida drug kingpin Jesus Montoya. Then, Quiller had turned up 
dead.
   That very afternoon, however, Holly had taken her Sunday off from 
unpacking in order to help Lorenzo trace Quiller's holdings. The 
computer files had revealed a bank deposit box.
   No wonder she felt responsible! Harry thought. "Holly, Rita was 
right...you're not to blame for any of this."
   She sat sullen, then asked what Chris had found.
   "Rita said incriminating tapes, according to Davis, an officer at the 
scene," Harry said. "Quiller probably had them tucked away as life 
insurance. Apparently, Montoya nabbed Rita to force the exchange."
   "Montoya knew about the tapes?" Holly said.
   "Apparently, but he couldn't touch 'em without a warrant."
   "Then, why the hit?"
   Lipschitz frowned. "Revenge? Silence, maybe?"
   The thought frightened Holly, and she grabbed the mike. To the 
captain, "Do you think he could try again?"
   "Call it in," Lipschitz ordered. "I want security beefed up at the 
hospital."
   
   Price led Lipschitz and Holly inside the motel room where Wayne 
Burns' body had been found atop the bloody bed. On the night stand, 
empty bandage packages. In a duffel bag on the floor, an UZI with an 
empty clip and a backup clip loaded with Black Talons. Across the room, 
roller blades, pads and a Kavlar vest in a heap.
   "He's the shooter all right," Price said, examining the corpse. It 
was apparent he had been shot on two occasions. The bandages covered 
wounds on his upper right arm and across his stomach, but not the two 
gaping wounds near the heart. "It's my guess these two came from 
Lorenzo's piece; these later from someone who wanted to tie up a loose 
end."
   "I want a ballistics test ASAP," the captain said. "Effective 
immediately, you're paired with Holly. I want you both in my office in 
an hour with full reports."
   "Captain? How's Lorenzo?"
   
   The ICU room was empty, the cardiac monitor silent, the sounds of PA 
pages in the background. Rita couldn't say a word; she couldn't move, 
she was so terrified.
   Chris had gone into cardiac arrest. Hospital staff worked 
frantically, and she had screamed her lungs out. The interns had given 
up.
   It had been a miracle that the chief of staff had arrived when he 
did, given orders, initiated a drastic open heart massage on the spot.
   So much blood...
   In the corridor, Lipschitz found a nurse. He knew she was in shock. 
In his mind, he vowed that Montoya would be brought to justice.
   
   In the homicide squadroom, the TV news was just coming on. Clinton 
was facing another budget impasse and more Bosnian debate; bitter fans 
faced the prospect of the Browns' final game ever in Cleveland; and in 
Palm Beach, one homicide detective still was fighting for his life; a 
second vice detective was dead.
   Price stormed into the squad room with his hastily done report.
   Lipschitz appeared from his office, complaining about the noise. The 
news report had black-eyed the department. He grabbed the remote out of 
a detective's hand, shut off the TV, slung the damned thing down. "Back 
to work!"
   Price followed him into the office without a word, and the other 
detective, seeing the glare in the captain's eyes, hurried to look busy.
   What did he have?
   He'd been right. Burns had taken four hits, two from Lorenzo's semi-
automatic, and two talons. They had their shooter, but Montoya had 
disappeared. Burns also had packed for a trip. Passport and a one-way 
ticket to Cordoba inside.
   "Cordoba?"
   "Yes, sir...A small island republic with diplomatic ties to Montoya's 
Columbia."
   "Send the APB statewide, including airport and cruise line customs." 
Into the squad room, Lipschitz apologized to the staff. He knew the 
holidays were approaching, but effective immediately, all leave time and 
vacations were canceled.
   He wanted Montoya found yesterday, and this was to be his only 
request! He wouldn't ask again.
   
   Rita's nightmare seemed so real--the emergency technicians shaking 
their heads and turning off the cardiac monitor; Chris lying there, 
perfectly still, eyes open; a funeral procession; full military honors 
with the playing of taps, the presentation of the flag, the playing of 
bagpipes...
   "Rita?" It was Frannie Lipschitz, flowers in hand, asking about 
further word.
   "Still in a coma."
   Frannie saw she still had on the bloody clothing and her face, once 
glowing, had become hollow. With a hug, she tried to be strong. "Have 
you slept?"
   Rita just looked at her, her mind elsewhere.
   "Have you eaten? You have to think of the baby."
   "Fran, what if Chris dies?"  Water welled in her eyes as she 
explained she couldn't take any more. This was it. Her recent promotion 
meant nothing without the only person she ever trusted. How could she 
ever trust another cop again? or, thinking of black widow Debra 
Bouchard, even an assistant D.A.?
   
   At the D.A.'s office, Conroy spoke in front of TV cameras, vowing to 
bring Montoya to justice. The list of charges, both state and federal, 
read like a litany...engaging in a pattern of corrupt activity (a state 
version of federal racketeering), aggravated murder, conspiracy to 
commit murder, conspiracy to aggravated trafficking in drugs, conspiracy 
to aggravated trafficking in dangerous ordnance, kidnapping, suspected 
conspiracy to interstate flight to avoid prosecution.... Not even a 
dream team could exonerate Montoya.
   Donovan turned it off, told Harry he was taken off the case because 
of his personal relationship. He knew Conroy was gearing up for re-
election.
   The phone rang, and Lipschitz answered. It was Donnie Dogs, just back 
in town after nearly a year from taking care of personal business in the 
Caribbean. He overlooked Harry's sarcasm, and expressed his regrets. He 
and Chris had had their differences, but he respected him and knew Rita 
loved him. They were incomplete without the other. Donnie's own men were 
combing the peninsula. 
   "The hit is out," DeBarto barked. Over the captain's objections, 
"This one will balance the national budget!"
   As Harry put the phone down, Price and Rawlins entered with reports. 
Holly was told to keep tracking down Montoya's finances on computer, to 
which she objected, fearing she'd miss all the action.
   Price was wearing grunge look again, and Lipschitz flared. "I thought 
I told you...jacket and tie in this office!"
   "Where I've been, Captain, don't you think I'd be a bit conspicuous?"
   After a deep breathing exercise, Harry said, "Living with the low 
lifes again? Fine! Track down those Talons!"
   
   At the chow wagon near the parking lot, Holly resumed her inquisition 
of Michael. "So, you mean to tell me you lost Kate to your own brother!"
   "Holly, please, not now!"
   She wasn't a patient woman!
   "I'm not a trusting man!" he growled. "Where I come from, trusting a 
partner could have gotten me killed...or worse, dirty."
   Where she came from, there were choices--a leather belt across her 
back, or losing all of her childhood memories in a matter of seconds as 
a black twister ripped through the trailer park.
   "You have to trust someone, Michael."
   "You have to earn trust," he replied.
   
   Just south of Palm Beach, Interstate 95 intersects U.S. 98, which 
stretches westward toward the northern tip of the Loxahatchee National 
Wildlife Refuge. Nearby, a black limousine pulled into the alligator 
farm, drove past a lake, over a wooden bridge by a spillway, and up to 
the compound. 
   There, Jesus Montoya greeted his cousin, Jose Sanchez, then ordered 
him to contact the Cordoban consulate.
   El Presidente Gonzalos was in his pocket, and owed him. If he wanted 
to remain El Presidente, that is....
   Meanwhile, there were loose ends to tie--Lena Correll, and Lt. Rita 
Lee Lance!
   
   Price had spent the better part of the day hoofing it from one seedy 
place to the next. Even the Christmas decorations brought no cheer. He 
wasn't in a good mood when he entered the pawn shop.
   The proprietor, a glutton in a ragged T-shirt with bad body odor, 
told him he'd been steered in the wrong direction by another low-life 
competitor.
   Price almost was convinced, until he spotted the plain, open box of 
shells behind the counter. The cartridges were blank, the tips removed.
   Price bid his farewell, went to his car and reached for his 
sportscoat. Then, he opened the trunk, looking to ensure nobody saw him 
as he took out a sawed-off shotgun, popped two 12-gauge cartridges into 
the barrels, closed the trunk. Maybe the Cap was right--the sportscoat 
had some useful purpose after all.
   The door burst open. Before the proprietor could reach for his piece 
beneath the cash register, Price had cocked the trigger, warned him off.
   Price laid the coat aside, slid over the counter, put the barrel to 
the man's throat, led him to the back room. Eyes roaming, he found what 
he was looking for...a wide array of munitions, some dismembered, talons 
included.
   Michael forced the fat man to lie spread eagle on the floor. Sawed-
off upward, he rummaged around, throwing coffee cans of casings, busting 
out glass in a rotted display case. He took out an UZI, popped the clip, 
loaded talons in the empty cartridge. "Maybe this will change your 
mind."
   Then he dragged the helpless scum to his feet. Who were these for?
   The scumball muttered in Spanish.
   Michael forced him against the wall, his left forearm across his 
throat. The muzzle of the UZI slid down the fatman's trousers as Price 
threatened to do it quickly.
   The fatman sung--he'd received his order from Lena Correll; the 
talons had been picked up by Burns. Only Lena knew where to find 
Montoya.
   Price led the man to a closet, forced him in and made him undress, 
tossing even his underwear out on the floor. Price retrieved his shotgun 
and coat on the way out and, once in traffic, radioed to headquarters.
   "Lena Correll," Lipschitz' voice replied, the black widow gunrunner 
that Chris and Rita had encountered before. He thought they'd busted her 
with Eric Russell's help. Her connections must have been more vast than 
even the BATF's Santos had thought.
   
   In Fort Lauderdale, the statewide APB caught Captain Benjamin 
Hutchinson by surprise. He was on the phone immediately with Harry 
Lipschitz, promised that if Montoya so much as stepped foot in his 
county, even the devil would need an off-shore oil drill to dig for him.
   
   Prison had not been kind to Lena Correll, but she still had that 
arrogance.
   Price was no threat to her; in fact, she toyed with him during 
interrogation in that damp, solitary room with only one table and two 
chairs as a stern matron looked on.
   "Montoya?" She laughed. Not even he dared challenge her.
   
   Holly was getting frustrated at her laptop computer when Price 
entered the squadroom. No more coffee for her, he thought! She was 
rattling on about needing a dedicated line because call-waiting kept 
cutting her off. It was Greek to him as he poured his own coffee.
   Then, her questions came...had he settled into his apartment yet? She 
thought the Cap had ordered him to wear a tie in the office. Had he even 
bothered to call brother Brian? 
   The coffee cup hit the desk hard, spilling over some paperwork. "Butt 
out!" Price flamed, "I've had enough of your brassy attitude!"
   "Michael, I'm sorry."
   Price's deep voice was drowned by the captain's stern "Knock it 
off...not in this office...take it outside...in my office now!"
   The captain had become Ahab! If Holly didn't shape up, she could find 
the unemployment office; and Price was no better, he could still rescind 
the transfer and send him back to the windy city by the great lake.
   The BATF agent Santos was there, his voice rigid, his stocky frame 
carried as though the arms and legs had been bolted on.
   Price told him what he'd found, and the captain and Santos filled 
Price and Holly in on their previous encounter with Cordell.
   Meanwhile, Holly's hacking had turned up legitimate business 
interests owned by Montoya, including a restaurant, a disco, a recording 
studio and a cousin named Sanchez with an alligator farm. One of them, 
or more, had to front for the laundered money and, perhaps, a clue to 
his hideaway.
   Because of the federal charges, the FBI, DEA and BATF all were on 
this one, Santos said. An AWACs plane was cruising the Caribbean; one 
fed in Dallas, by the name of Shelby, had inquired about Chris's 
condition.
   There was still no change.
   Price, eager to have more fun with the low lifes and stay clear of 
Holly in the office, readily volunteered to knock on the doors to her 
list, including Sanchez.
   Lipschitz was coming, too.
   
   Chris lay motionless, as if in an everlasting sleep. There was only 
the sound of the oxygen pump, the cardiac monitor, and that blasted 
public address page.
   Rita was in a stage of denial, first remembering tough cases they'd 
cracked together; then fantacizing about moving away, raising their 
little Sammy, living normal lifes and golfing.
   
   The sight of the alligator sliding off the bank into the murky water 
gave Lipschitz the creeps.
   Price was more interested in taking inventory--barbed wire, barrels 
of raw chicken throw-away parts, an old truck parked near several 
barrels of gasoline, a wooden bridge near the spillway dam, a 20-foot 
water tower with a walkway wide enough for a guard to be stationed.
   Had Sanchez seen his cousin lately? Not since he immigrated more than 
a decade ago, the Latino said, smiling as he offered to show them he was 
now a full-fledged American citizen and a respectable businessman.
   "Respectable businessmen don't post signs telling trespassers they'll 
be eaten!" Price remarked.
   Sanchez replied they were out of their jurisdiction, and if they 
returned they'd better have a warrant.
   In the captain's car, neither officer bought it for a second.
   Price was glad they'd both driven; his car was nearby, and he was 
already prepared for a stakeout.
   Did he bring anything to eat?
   "Yeah, a chicken sandwich!"
   The captain was repulsing at the thought of those chicken's heads and 
feet in the barrel, and preferred strawberry jam.
   The radio crackled. Lena Correll's body had been found in the prison 
shower; she'd been bludgeoned to death.
   "What was that about strawberry jam?" Price remarked, adding that 
whoever did it should be parolled.
   Lipschitz dropped Price off at his car near the compound and, en-
route back to town, used his cellular phone to call Donnie Dogs. He 
wanted to meet him at the club.
   He had a prescription he needed filled--one only Donnie had the 
connections to obtain.
   
   Later, in the office, Rita came in looking like she'd finally gotten 
some rest. Still no change, and Frannie had convinced her to get a 
checkup. Her doctor was concerned about the effects of stress, also 
questioned the regression of her aneurysm. 
   Asked why she had come to the office, she replied she needed some 
fresh air.
   She asked the captain to bring her up to speed on the investigation, 
but he told her she had been placed on indefinite, paid administrative 
leave. As Chris's wife, she couldn't possibly come within a hundred 
miles of this investigation.
   Unfortunately, it was in her own back yard.
   The captain offered her a ride back to the hospital on his way to 
meet Donnie.
   Rita was surprised. The very thought the Cap would actually do that 
gave her reason to worry. But first, she needed a minute.
   In her own office, Lt. Lance looked at her name plate, sat down 
behind her desk. Nearly a decade on the force, for this!
   "I've always wanted to say, "Sgt. Lorenzo, in my office, now'!"
   In her drawer, the wired broach that had brought down Flip-A-Coin-
Moyne, even Jasmime's dusty file.
   How often she had threatened to call it quits!
   "Rita?"
   "Coming, Cap!"
   
   In the back room at the club, the captain gave Donnie a folded slip 
of paper.
   Donnie put Dutchie down; he couldn't believe it. Hollowed-point slugs 
and a vial of mercury!
   There was an old saying in Greece, Donnie remarked seriously, that 
one who seeks revenge should first dig two graves.
   
   Rita was falling asleep at Chris's bedside when the moan startled 
her. She reached for the bedside buzzer, then caressed his head as he 
came to, visions of the oncoming black blade-runner and of realizing 
he'd been hit. He cried like a little boy.
   The nightmare was over, she whispered; she was there and always would 
be.
   She was wrong.
   In the moments that followed, she realized Chris was totally 
paralyzed.
   
   
   That night, events began to unfold on several fronts that would focus 
world attention upon the Florida peninsula and forever change the lives 
of those in the silk stalkings' detail.
   Under a bright garage light, Harry Lipschitz' hands trembled as he 
placed droplets of mercury into the hollowed-point slugs, then sealed 
the openings with wax and re-inserted the slugs into the casings. 
   He tried to hide them under a towel when Frannie asked him how much 
longer he would be, and she continually nagged. He was sweating, and she 
was certain he had a fever; he needed tea.
   Still, he showed patience. For all these years, she had been the best 
wife he could ever have asked for. At the moment, he wondered if the 
coming sunrise might be his last.
   
   Meanwhile, Price was getting uncomfortable inside his car. Nothing 
had been seen for hours. The cellular phone rang: Holly. Was anything 
brewing?
   Not yet--wait a minute! He wasn't sure...needed to get a closer 
look...
   ...A light in the garage.
   ...A glimpse of a limo.
   ...With binoculars trained, Florida plates....
   He needed a closer look to run the registration.
   
   He didn't know a scanner in the compound had locked in on the 
frequency.
   
   Price stealthily moved through the palm trees, across the wooden 
bridge where the small lake narrowed. Now closer, he saw, indeed, that a 
guard with a sniper scope was perched on the tower. Service .45 in hand, 
he waited for the right moment, then headed for the cover of the old 
truck.
   He didn't recongize the Spanish-speaking voices of the two men 
leaving the garage and heading into the main cabin, but "Jesus" was 
unmistakeable...Montoya. The door closed behind them.
   Price started to move forward toward a window when, suddenly, he felt 
cold steel at the base of his skull.
   Slowly, he lowered his weapon.
   An instant later, there was a flash of intense pain, then total 
darkness.
   
   Cordoba, in the Carribbean...
   El Presidente was rehearsing his speech when the man entered. There 
would be no speech tomorrow...there would be a new El Presidente, unless 
he followed orders.
   
   At the hospital, at dawn...
   Further complications had arisen, this time a circulatory infection. 
Rita's worries were compounding, and George's visit, while appreciative, 
had been little consolation.
   Chris was sleeping; she, remembering the time they were undercover 
and had to pretend to golf...watch where you put your hands...you mean 
that kiss never meant....
   The nightmare flashed...a sunny day...flowers on a gravesite, the 
stone bearing Lorenzo's name...how am I supposed to raise our child 
without you?
   Summoned to a phone, it was Anna Alexis from Italy. Filming had just 
started when Benjamin had called. Whatever the cost, the money to make 
him well was no obstacle.
   Rita explained the department had good coverage; if he made it, even 
disability pension.
   For once they agreed: no price could be placed on his life.
   Chris was awakening, and as they spoke, he began to cry because he 
couldn't feel his hand in hers', couldn't wipe away a tear...
   
   Day shift was just filtering in when Holly struck pay dirt. The 
printout showed Montoya's drug money had been laundered through the 
farm, which as a front sold the animals to international zoos, the 
lesser specimens to the garment industry. The comparisons between 
shipments sent by the farm and received by five separate outlets showed 
large discrepancies and funds filtered to Cordoba.
   "What are we waiting for?" said Lipschitz, shutting off his electric 
razor. In the next five seconds, Holly heard him rattle off at least ten 
orders...call Conroy...get the warrant...get Santos on the line...has 
anybody heard from Price?
   Holly told him he had moved in for a closer look.
   No word since? 
   They checked with 9-1-1 Dispatch. The dispatcher checked the log, 
found the BMV registration check. "Papa-Romeo-Echo-Sierra-Niner-Three." 
There had been no further communication.
   It meant trouble.
   A few minutes later, Holly was getting into the passenger's seat in 
the captain's car, and he wasted no time clearing the station. Holly 
noticed they were turning north onto the A1A, or U.S. 1. "Where are we 
going?"
   "To the Coast Guard station on Peanut Island," Harry blurted. Santos 
had come through. "This has to be coordinated, and he's getting us 
chopper support."
   
   "You expect me to talk?" Price replied, his arms stretched upward, 
hands tied at the wrists, body suspended in midair, the rope hung to a 
grappling hook above.
   "No, amigo, is purely business, si," said Montoya with a grin. "I 
expect you to die when the time comes."
   He turned to one of his lackies, said, "Chivalry is not dead...yet! 
The policio and his magnifico wife...this time, make certain, or I will 
feed your innards to the gators, si?"
   The lackey left.
   To Price, "Forgive me. I have been a terrible host. Ha, ha! A good 
host should see to his guest's every need, correct?" As he was leaving, 
"Excuse me, but the plane will arrive soon. I have some packing to 
do...and some excess baggage to tend to."
   
   High above the Carribbean, an AWACs plane stayed its course. In its 
belly, radar operators monitored the flight plan of the small twin-prop 
Cessna that had taken off from Cordoba.
   
   "All right, does everybody understand their assignments," said 
Santos, wearing the black Kavlar bullet proof vest and matching cap with 
the BATF letters.
   Lipschitz glanced inside the Coast Guard Huey. His eyes enlarged at 
sight of the retractable gattling gun capable of firing 300 armor-
piercing rounds per second. That thing could bring down King Kong, he 
thought.
   Santos continued: AWACs was tracking the flight plan of the twin-
engine plane from Corboba. Only two possible landing sites, Palm Beach 
or Orlando.
   Holly glanced down at the battery-pack transmitter Santos was 
wearing. 148.375. A CG Auxiliary frequency.
   Santos' instructions were distracted by a white limosine bearing 
Cordoban flags that pulled onto the tarmac. Three suits emerged, one a 
Latino.
   They approached like Wall Street soldiers.
   One produced a diplomatic pouch, from which a sealed envelope was 
produced.
   Diplomatic immunity!
   Harry Lipschitz found himself using a string of expletive deletives 
he thought he'd never ever use in one sentence.
   
   At the hospital...
   A CAT scan on Chris was beginning.
   In the waiting room, Rita felt the baby move, began whispering to her 
little Sammy.
   In the corridor, George Donovan stopped to talk to the hospital 
security guard, who needed to go to the bathroom.
   
   The small assault team was disbanding as Lipschitz opened his cruiser 
door. He'd drop Holly off back the station. He had an errand to run.
   "You're going after Montoya, aren't you?"
   "Leave it alone, Rawlins."
   "I'm coming along!"
   "Read my lips--no way!"
   "I got the AWACs frequency," she said, climbing in. "Does your 
scanner cover the range?"
   He huffed. "Women!"
   
   Price knew time was running out. Montoya had ordered a hit at the 
hospital. A plane was coming. He was hung like a side of beef!
   "We have twenty minutes to get to the landing strip."
   "Bring the Gringo."
   The door opened, and the lackey entered, approached. "Is time, 
Gringo."
   "Yes, a time to live...and a time to die." Instantly, Michael pulled 
on the ropes, his legs grasping the lackey by the throat in a choke 
hold. Using the body for support, Michael reached higher up the rope, 
pulled it over the hook, and came free.
   Their bodies crashed to the wooden floor. As they rolled and 
scrambled, Price put the rope to the man's throat and pulled tight. In 
seconds, it was over.
   Price opened the door.
   "El Diablo Gringo," Montoya cursed, and pulling his weapon, fired. By 
the time Price had hit the deck and recovered enough to look, the old 
truck was leaving dust in its trail.
   Price ran, took cover behind a barrel as a shot rang out. 
   Gasoline began leaking.
   Price was on the move, diving for dear life as a second shot rang out 
and the barrel exploded.
   Again on the move.
   Another explosion in chain reaction.
   Shots fired from the tower....
   The old truck had cleared the compound; Price, running on the bridge, 
derailed, finding himself face to face with an alligator's jaws just 
below. He grabbed for whatever he could.
   When at last he reached his car, he stopped dead in his tracks. The 
tires were flattened, the windshield smashed, the cellular and radio in 
pieces.
   Enraged, he began beating on it. Chris and Rita were targets; he felt 
totally helpless. Nothing he could do but hitchhike.
   
   A door closed. The assassin pushed the gurney down the busy corridor.
   In the men's room, Donovan had had one too many cups of coffee, and 
was unzipping his fly when, in the mirror, droplets of blood on the tile 
caught his attention. He opened the stall door, found a security guard 
fatally wounded with his pants down. "What a way to go," he muttered to 
himself, and looked for a weapon.
   Now in room 220 in the west wing of the ICU floor, Chris Lorenzo 
wanted to die. Though his strength was improving, he felt useless.
   "Remember the fight Jillian and I had, Sam? How I was so stuck up 
about paying the bill at the restaurant?"
   "I remember, Sam," she said, trying to smile for him. "As I recall, 
you both got what you deserved."
   "It's not fair, Sam. I can't--"
   "Shhhh, we have all the time in the world."
   The gurney in the corridor came closer.
   "Listen, Sam--"
   "No, you listen," she said, "all my life, I've never been able to 
trust anyone they way I trust you. All my life, I've waited to find the 
right man who accepted me the way I am. And for the last four-and-a-half 
years, I've discovered, he's been beside me all along...and 
occasionally, I didn't even see it."
   She leaned over, kissed him.
   
   Now walking alongside U.S. 98, Price cursed. The car sped by.
   
   Chris was asleep, Rita dozing off in the chair.
   The stranger entered, started to shut off the oxygen valve. The lack 
of oxygen awakened Chris, and he gasped for breath.
   Rita was startled.
   The stranger was taking aim at her.
   In the next instant, a miracle happened...Chris's right arm hit the 
nurse's buzzer.
   The assassin spun around.
   "Drop it!" It was Donovan, nervously holding the security guard's 
standard issue.
   The assassin's firearm fell.
   Rita stood up and, assured that Chris had not been hit, smiled. 
"George, you left the safety on. You really need to take a firearms 
course."
   "Rita...Rita...did you see that! I can move!"
   
   Holly had found the frequency on the captain's radio. AWACs reported 
to the DEA that the Cessna had veered off course from Palm Beach.
   Lipschitz knew about the abandoned WWII airstrip less than five miles 
away. This was Holly's last chance to get off.
   Was that an order?
   No, it was a request, said the captain, opening the small cigar box 
with the mercury-tipped slugs. Like grenades, they would fragment upon 
impact.
   
   "Vamos, the plane will be there in minutes!' ordered Montoya, in the 
passenger seat of the truck.
   As his driver rounded a curve, they came across a disabled vehicle 
and a pair of gorgeous legs dangling out from under the hood. 
   The driver honked, then at Montoya's order, climbed out.
   "I think it's the alternator," said Holly, her blouse tied at her 
waist, a dab of grease on her cheek. "Can you help me? Oh, look, I 
ripped one of my stockings! I promise you a reward," she added, bending 
over to give him a glimpse that made his eyes pop.
   The driver leaned over toward the engine.
   Holly slammed down the hood.
   
   "Out of the truck, Montoya!  This way."
   Lipschitz held the automatic to his throat, led the gangster away 
from the truck, through the thicket toward the nearby swamp.
   "Keep going."
   "You're out of your jurisdiction, El Capitano," Montoya said smugly, 
pushing aside high brush. "I'll have your badge for this."
   "Walk!"
   "Contact your Commissioner," said Montoya, stopping and turning 
around to face him by the muddy bank. With a grin, "I have diplomatic 
immunity!"
   Overhead, the twin-engine Cessna began banking into a turn for its 
approach to the air strip less than 100 yards away.
   "Immunity! You're making a mockery of the law."
   "You will excuse me, El Capitano, I have a plane to catch."
   "You're not going anywhere, Montoya." He raised his semi-automatic.
   Montoya held open his sportscoat. "See, I am an unarmed diplomat, and 
you are a police officer sworn to uphold the law of your land which says 
you cannot do this." 
   Lipschitz' left hand reached inside his coat for the diplomatic 
paper. "Immunity?"
   "You must obey the rules, El Capitan! Think of your pension!"
   His right hand cocked the safety off. "Yes, Montoya, I'm a police 
officer, and I've sworn to uphold the law..."
   With a cackle, "Ha! Gringos!"
   "...And take a stand for justice..."
   "You cannot do this! You haven't the guts for this!" Montoya's smirk 
had vanished. Angrily, "...Gringos, you haven't the nerve!" Then, 
laughing, "Bang! Bang--"
   "You're dead," said Lipschitz coldly, and squeezed the trigger.
   Overhead, birds flocked away, and the Cessna took a low pass then 
slowly disappeared. 
   Holly emerged from the high brush, caught sight of an alligator's 
tail disappearing into the greenish murk, where a circle of blood was 
enlarging.
   At the captain's feet lay a crumpled wad of paper.
   
   Several days later, at the hospital...
   The news media was having a field day. Shock waves had struck the 
Cordoban government with announcement of the president's resignation and 
self-imposed exile. Closer to home, the station was investigating rumors 
that a paramilitary operation had been aborted at the last instant. The 
announcer surmised that the presence of BATF and DEA operatives somehow 
had linked the Cordoban developments with a drug cartel whose rumored 
leader, Jesus Montoya, was nowhere to be found. Following station 
identification, a look at the Hollywood scene, where Susan Sarandon had 
been hired to replace Anna Alexis, who had suddenly quit production in 
Italy of "The Only Game in Town" for personal reasons.
   "She's on her way," Rita told Chris as the staff lifted him onto the 
gurney for the ride down to the waiting ambulance. He had regained some 
use of his right arm and leg, and the prognosis was now good. Chris was 
wearing last night's paper New Year's Eve hat, and blew a noisemaker 
playfully at Rita. She stroked his cheek and smiled, said, "We're a 
family now."
   "I'm going to miss you two," said Lipschitz. "You're taking a big 
piece of my heart with you."
   Rita reminded him the university hospital in Miami was just down the 
interstate. It was where Chris could get the specialized rehabilitation 
he needed, and where she had found a job teaching undergraduate 
criminology and could work with recruits at the police academy. There, 
they would be safe...unless Hurricane Andrew came looking for a return 
match.
   Price remarked that Andrew didn't dare show it's face again, and left 
with Holly.
   So, where did she want to eat? Michael asked, opening the car door 
for her.
   She thought.
   Simultaneously, she: "Cajun!"
   He: "A good steak!"
   They both laughed. "Will we ever get along?"
   Ready to leave the hospital, Rita reached for her purse. On behalf of 
Chris, she asked if Harry and Frannie would be their child's godparents.
   He thought they'd never ask, and hugged her.
   In that moment, she gave him her gold shield. He promised she could 
always have it back. He made her promise to call as soon as she went 
into labor, no matter what time, or how far away.
   As the gurney was rolled into the awaiting ambulance, Rita climbed in 
the back and, with a smile, "Now, we have all the time in the world...I 
love you."
   Chris laughed, said, "Could you play that again, Sam?"